Brain Quakes

OH, HAI!

2010-03-19T15:01:00.000-07:00

Oh, hey. What's up? Blog, you say? I have a blog?

Surely fucking not.

If I had a blog, I would write there. So you're obviously drunk.

That, or I'm a big fat procrastinating ass with an almost-five-month-old and a computer that JUST YESTERDAY was fixed after the Blue Screen Of Death appeared like maybe two or more months ago, apologies. I kept meaning to call Dell support, but it's not something that can be done when the baby is conscious because he has recently found his voice and enjoys very much to use it.

But yeah. So.

Um, ironically: he just woke up, the baby, and is unhappy about it, so... But I promise, I'll be here more now. And boy, do we have a lot to catch up on.

So that sucked.

2010-01-24T15:15:00.000-08:00

Come to find out, when people say that having a child will put a strain on your relationship, what they REALLY mean is, "You're going to want to kill him. Like... ALL THE TIME." Because, ha ha! This whole keeping someone alive thing is hard. Fucking haaaard. When you read that second hard, you should kind of grunt and double over because IT'S SO HARD.

Yeah. So since the baby was born, we've been kind of drifting around, the boy and I, drifting around each other in the same house but not really the same because our lives have been pretty separate. We don't parent together, we just switch off. This sort of seems to have evolved as a coping mechanism, but obviously is not. This is the exact opposite of productive living because we're doing it alone, but while kind of near each other, which is maddening. As you might be able to guess. Oh, and also, our baby was really colicky and miserable. Not easy. No baby is easy, obviously, but they're certainly made harder by tortured screaming 20 hours a day. (That? Is not an exaggeration. "Babies sleep all the time," is the biggest bullshitting lie I've ever heard and I would suggest you not repeat it to anyone, ever, lest they wind up with Baby O' Terror like mine was, and come for you in your sleep.) It's gotten better, the screaming, but still. Stress.

And last night, it all kind of compounded and blew itself to stinking, rotting bits, and The Boy and I wound up slinging words like, "You're a crazy pain in the ass to be around," (him) and, "You don't do ANYTHING! Why am I even HERE?!" (me.) Needless to say, it was terrible. We worked it out, but it sucked. Bad. And I need it to not happen again, because I just cannot take it.

So what I WANT (There's always something, isn't there. Me, me, me. I, I, I.) is ADVICE. Yes, I'm asking for it, so let me have it with both barrels. Tell me our fatal mistake was getting knocked up out of wedlock, or that we haven't even been together long enough (a year and some change) to raise a child together, or whatever. Include every admonition you can think of if you have to. Just give me advice on how to keep this from happening again, because as it's going now I'm going to be finding out how hideously Prison Orange clashes with my low lights. (Because I'm going to fucking ax murder him, for those of you just tuning in. Which is going to be the result of me constantly walking away to avoid saying I HATE YOU AND YOUR ASSFACE out of misplaced aggression.)

I'm too snarky to go to prison. I'll get shanked. Save me from myself, will you?

Oh, damn it.

2010-01-19T14:10:00.000-08:00

I just got a text message from my sister: "I guess you didn't get my email. (Niece) is going in for surgery tomorrow."

So, I called. Obviously. My sister told me that my 7 year-old niece is going to have three moles removed from her scalp tomorrow morning... They'll require stitches, and the doctors will have to shave her head in a couple of places to remove them.

She's scared, because she's never had stitches and she's afraid it will hurt. And how that breaks my heart, I can't even say.

The moles will be sent in for tests, and then we'll know more in 14 or more days. I stopped listening after 'fourteen' because seriously? Fourteen days to hear back about whether or not a little girl has cancer? So I don't know how many more than fourteen days we might have to wait. I do know that skin cancer runs in my sister's father's side of the family (we have the same mother) and that my sister has had to have several moles removed in her life, "just to be safe." I know that skin cancer is the leading cause of death in her father's family. I know my sister is afraid, and trying not to be.

I'm trying really hard not to furiously pepper big, terrified F bombs all over this. I just found out, and the baby is sleeping, and I'm trying to work my mind around the fact that we live in a world where things like this happen so I wanted to write about it... I wanted to try to work it out, and I kind of need help to do that. I know that bad things happen, and they happen to sweet, sweet little girls. Maybe not this one, though, I keep telling myself to shut up and remember that we don't know anything yet.

Let me tell you something about this girl. She giggles CONSTANTLY. I mean that seriously. It's constant. At first it comes off as a nervous habit, but if you know her you know that she laughs all the time because she's just that happy. She's really, really happy... And she's a cuddle bug. The child is never happier than when she's in someone's arms, or holding your hand, or sitting on your lap. She loves everything and everyone SO MUCH. She's a sweet, darling little girl, and she's scared right now because she's going to do something very hard tomorrow and she doesn't want it to hurt.

I don't want her to hurt. I don't want this to be the kind of world where sweet little girls have to do scary things.

I don't mean to be one of those people that goes onto their tiny little blog and asks the four readers she has to send happy thoughts to a stranger, but please... Please, if you pray, could you do that? If you have a spare happy thought, could you send it? It can just be tiny, and general, aimed at all of the nameless, sweet little girls out there. Because good thoughts can never hurt, and prayers are never things that can do any harm, right? And she's just so little. She's just a little girl.

(Look at that, two posts in one day. Wish it had just been the one, but I'm kind of panicked and The Boy isn't here to talk to me and did I mention she's just little? And our mother died of cancer? And oh, damn it.)

Dreams.

2010-01-19T08:33:00.000-08:00

I keep having dreams about my parents. I dream that they aren't dead, that they're here. I dream that they know my son. I hate these dreams because they remind me even when I sleep of what I will never have. They irritate me by showing me what I avoid looking at when I'm awake.

These dreams are fuckers.

I've been feeling so incredibly lucky lately, so blessed. I've been busy and overwhelmed and in so far over my head that sometimes it feels like I'll never be able to breathe again, (and then I remember that I'm going back to work in a week and a half, and I realize that I don't know what stress IS yet, and I start to hyperventilate for real) but when all of that passes- and it does pass- I'm left with a feeling of such fortune that it stuns me. I've never done anything in my life to deserve any of this. I don't deserve to be this kind of happy. It is a solid thing, a lasting thing. It sits beneath all of the confusion and fear and panic of new parenthood, and patiently it waits. It abides.

Eventually, I slow down and take a moment to look at this person that I had a hand in making, and I forget to feel guilty that his stomach is a messed up ball of FAIL, and that sleep is nothing more than a photograph of a dream about a distant memory that someone else had forever ago, and I will never have a chance at again ever because mah bebeh, he does not snooze... And it's then when I am quiet that I feel this warm, sweet thing that can only be perfect happiness.

But it seems as though a part of me cannot manage to be content. It roots through, digging down to a wound that I wish would just scab over and scar, ripping it open again and again.

I'm too young to be an orphan. A thousand times a day, I need my mother. I'm not sure if you've heard, but somehow there must have been a mix up in the paperwork because, holy shit, they let me walk out of a hospital- where people were trained to keep infants alive, and were probably completely capable of doing so- with a newborn. A tiny little thing that depends on me.

Two quick notes about parenthood:
1. Wow. Wow, huh? I mean, WOW. Amazing, humbling, beautiful. Amiright?
2. I miss alcohol and cigarettes. LIKE BAD. Because this? Is fucking stressful. See that part up there where I said something about a tiny thing depending on me? Yeah. That = Stress.

I miss my mother. I keen for her. More times than I can count since my son has been born, I've wept for wanting her. I need her to hug me and tell me it's going to be okay, that my son is going to be okay, that I'm not fucking everything up. I need to hear her because I know I would believe her. I know I would feel better, that I wouldn't feel so terrified and lost with her here to steady me.

I miss my father, too, but less because I need him and more because he would have been so proud of his grandson. He loved babies and had wanted grandchildren for a long time (..From what I hear. My sister was the one to inform me of that - he wanted HER to have children, not me, for reasons I've touched on here before. But beggars, choosers, blah. Specifics aren't important, right? It's what I tell myself.) When I think of my father, there is still a lot of anger, but I do miss him. I miss them both.

And so I dream of them. I dream that they hold my son, that they can see him smile and hear him do his best impression of a baby dinosaur. (I'm no expert, but in my humble opinion, it is an impressive audio likeness. It's positively primal.) I dream that we are together. I dream that I'm not alone.

I dream of the only thing I can't have when I'm awake, the only thing I have left to want, and I ache.

Fear.

2009-11-29T09:32:00.000-08:00

Turns out, I really was in early labor. I didn't mean to leave anyone hanging, it's just that I've been kind of occupied with this little ball of baby boy, and that doesn't leave a whole lot of time for writing.

More than the physical and mental occupation with our son, I'll be honest and just put it out there that I'm terrified. I can't say it anywhere else without people looking at me like I might be too overwhelmed and at risk of throwing the baby out on trash day. (Which, let me be clear, is not what's happening here.) I'm just... it's just a lot. It's more than I thought it would be, and it's harder than I imagined, and I'm scared. When I say I'm scared, people look at me like I need medication. Maybe I do, I don't know, but the details are as follows:

My son was born a month early, at 5lbs 3oz... (I did it on my own, by the way. No medication, 12 hours of contractions 1 minute long/2 minutes apart, 2 hours of active pushing. I'm kind of proud of that.) He dropped to 5lbs 4oz, and was hardly maintaining there for a week... He had one bowel movement in the first two weeks, which is highly unusual, and we had to start supplementing with formula because I was starving my son by breastfeeding exclusively. And holy shit, can I just say that hurts so incredibly bad to even TYPE, no wonder people don't want to hear me SAY it...

Now at a month old, he's up to 6lbs 6oz, which is almost the size of a 'normal' newborn. I thank God every twenty seconds that he's growing... But his stomach is a mystery that the doctors can't crack. He screams for hours in obvious pain, and is constipated terribly. We've tried every stupid thing they can throw at us, even giving him diluted juice and Karo syrup in an attempt to give him diarrhea. So yeah, we're trying to make him sick to make him better... Again, I can hardly even type those words... Now the doctors are throwing around words like "barium" and "extensive tests" and "possible intestinal abnormalities" and I want to throw myself into fucking traffic because this can't be happening. It has to be a dream, and everyone knows that if you die in a dream you wake up. Or is it that you die in your sleep? Either way... Anything would be better than this not knowing, this inability to help my son.

He's just so little, yaknow..? He's so small, and he's in so much pain, and they aren't helping him, and I just want to scream ALL THE TIME. Babies aren't supposed to know pain. We're supposed to be able to protect them - I'm supposed to be able to protect him - and I can't. And I'm afraid this is what insanity feels like. A month is hardly any length of time in the big scheme of things, but it's an eternity when there's no sleep for you (literally three hours a night, that's how much sleep I'm getting) and no relief for your child. A month is forever.

So if there's no improvement by tomorrow I have to take him to the hospital, and I can't even think about what that means right now. I just keep staring at him, thinking stupidly that if I stare hard enough I'll be able to figure out what's the matter and fix it. I stare and hope and pray, and I hold my fucking breath until I think I'm going to die because its all I can do. And it's not enough.

That's what I've been up to... What about everyone else? What's been going on outside this tiny universe of mine?

I blew my cork. Except less 'blew' and more 'slipped away like Wilson from the raft.'

2009-10-31T12:07:00.000-07:00

So remember when I said I'd shortly be writing about a reoccurring dream I've had my whole life? Yeah, that was a lie. I didn't know it was when I told it, but woops! Pesky ol' LIFE got in the way and what do you know, I'm in the early stages of labor. Or, uh, the stages of Early Labor? Or whatever. I don't know. It depends on which book you read, but apparently the only thing keeping me from firing an infant out of my patunia like a cannon ball is that my water hasn't broken yet.

That seems like a flimsy barrier, yaknow? A bag of fluid is all that's standing between me and having a person coming out of my pelvis. I keep kind of looking down and going, "Really?" because, REALLY? There's a person that's going to come out of there? Whatever. That's got to be a joke or a dirty rumor that someone started when they were high on glue.

Without getting too personal and queasy, let me tell you what's already happening with my vagina. (How contradictory am I? Shut up, it's cute.)

- I'm dilated to 2 cm, and have been for about a week. My doc put me on 'modified bed rest' - which means that I can come to my sitting-on-my-ass-type job and SIT, and I can go home and lie down, but that's it. No walking around, no doing anything. No lifting anything heavier than a gallon of milk, wtf.
- The baby has most definitely moved down. I can breathe now, but the trade off is that I can hardly walk, because there's like this SKULL inside my PELVIS and holy shit OW. Well, not really ow. But more... owwww. Not really painful, but decidedly uncomfortable.
- I started losing my mucus plug yesterday. (I have to whisper 'mucus plug,' when I say it out loud, by the way, and follow it up with an ambivalent 'whatever,' as in, "I'm losing my mucus plug or whatever." Because there's something weird about saying 'mucus' when you're talking about your downstairs. So in an effort to make talking about it less awkward, I've taken to calling it my Cooter Cork, and that makes me laugh so hard I almost pee every time I say it. In addition to the peeing, it feels like my abdomen is going to rip open ala some terrible horror movie every time I laugh, because it's SO TIGHT and FULL OF BEBEH OMGZ.)
- I've started cramping low in my back and belly. It's a vague, menstrual period kind of cramping.
- I'm 36 weeks pregnant.

Now, all of these really vague, contradictory and mysterious books and Internet sites I've been scouring tell me that early labor can last like, twenty seconds, or it can go on for fucking WEEKS. Because who knows! The female body is a strange and mystical thing that no one could ever possibly understand!

So... Any advice? I have my hospital bag packed. I've got everything all ready to go. It's just... uh... Hm. I'm kind of worried that I'm going to be doing this crampy, achy, vaguely labory thing for A LONG TIME, and that makes me want to go up to the Walmarts and start doing bicep curls in the diary section to get things kicked off.

Monkey hijack.

2009-10-25T23:50:00.000-07:00

I know no one is interested in hearing about what another person dreams. Dreams never make any sense, and they're always kind of anticlimactic and weird. You never ask to hear about them, but instead it comes on in a sort of bum rush hijack. Like a mugging. You see someone at the grocery store and they're like, "Oh my gosh, so, speaking of bananas. The other night I had this dream where a monkey broke into my car through the bumper, and I went outside to see what the ruckus was, and I could see this bigass monkey in the passenger seat of my car. He was like... looking at me. So I went back inside to get Mr. Husband, and when we came back out, the monkey had ripped the entire car apart! And I said, "Fucking monkey!" and then I woke up and I'd peed the bed. What do you think that means?"

I think it means you need to not drink so much coffee before bed. Strike that. I think you need to not drink coffee EVER, especially when you know you're going to the grocery store and might run into an unassuming acquaintance that didn't ever want to know you have bladder issues and a strange monkey fixation.

That being said! I had a dream last night. It's a reoccurring dream, and I've had it since I was very little, always the same down to the most minuscule details. I'm going to post about it here shortly, and I'd like some feedback. I've always wondered what it might mean, what the symbolism is, why I have it at all. So, fair warning, I'm going to bore everyone with my own little monkey dream. I'd love to hear about yours, too, if anyone wants to share. Dreams are fascinating things. (Except when they're not. Which is usually. But I'm sure yours are AWESOME.)

Spoiler: There are no monkeys in the dream I had. Damnit.

I said the F word in a funeral home. A LOT.

2009-10-20T16:29:00.001-07:00

Last Sunday I found out my dad died. I found this out the same way I always find out things of this nature - my older sister told me. People tell her and have her tell me, because... I don't know why. But they always tell her first, and leave my finding out up to her.

I was at work when The Older emailed me and asked me to take a break so she could call my cell. I said hey, no problem, and ran down the hall to the locker room. As I was sitting down to pee, I called my sister. She answered the phone crying, and I told her to take a deep breath and not say a word, because whatever this news was, I wasn't going to get it on the toilet.

After I was situated on a bench I told her it was okay, whatever it was, and that I wanted to hear her breathe for me. Big, deep breaths. After she did this for a few minutes, I told her to go ahead, but take it easy. (I can't stand to hear her upset. It murders my soul.) She told me between sobs that our dad was dead. I knew the news was coming, because there was nothing else that could have upset her this way unless it was news about our other sister or her children, which I would have gotten first because I'm closer to The Oldest than she is. I stupidly asked if she was serious, which appears to be my stock asshole response when I'm getting "So-and-so Is Dead" news, and told her it was okay. I told her to breathe. I stared at the tiled floor while the news tried to beat its way into my brain, while it tried to wring some sort of reaction from me. The Older noticed my lack of appropriately upset reaction and commented on it, making me feel about thisbig as I told her, "I'm at work."

It was all I could think to say.

It is my job to keep people calm in crisis. In order to do what I do, you fabricate around yourself a shell that is nigh on impenetrable. You do this to preserve yourself against the absolute horror that can come with what I do. That shell is most of the reason I did not react, I think. I hope. I hope the reason for my lack of reaction didn't have something to do with the shitty state of my relationship with my father, although if I'm being honest, I know that it did, at least a little. I know there was some shock there, although his health was TERRIBLE and certainly this did not come as a true surprise... Death is always a shock. It's so sudden, so permanent. And so, I focused on talking my sister through her grief and panic, because for whatever reason, it's what I could do at the time.

I went back into my office, asked my boss very calmly if he could get someone to cover the rest of my shift because my father was dead. He didn't seem to hear me, then turned and looked at my face, as if to see if I was serious. My phone was still to my ear as I looked at him, my skull filled with the sound of my sister crying on the other end of the line. I said, "I'm sorry," but to whom, I don't know. It was all I could think to say...

The Boy showed up then- turns out The Older had called him before she called me, out of concern for my reaction to the news and the affect it might have on the pregnancy. He found me kneeling in the dark in another office, staring at the carpet and trying stupidly to comfort my sister over the phone. He pulled a chair over, sat down with his legs on either side of me, and there in the shelter of him the tears finally came.

The next couple of days are a blur. We wound up in our home town, where we picked The Older up at the airport. The morning after that there was the funeral home to visit, details to tack down that could not be finalized long-distance via phone or fax. I learned, not unexpectedly, that my father had not had one cent of life insurance, nor had he made any sort of realistic arrangements for his death at all. (My uncle's ex wife had gone and gotten all kinds of papers for him, filled them out, and taken them to his apartment. She'd explained that all he had to do was sign those papers, and the government would give him life insurance. They would pay for his many, many medications. He would have nurses that would come to the apartment and check on him, they would make sure he was okay. The drawback would be that my dad would receive a few dollars less a month in Social Security, which would be more than made up for in the deferred cost of his meds. The papers were never seen again. He made no effort to even sign his name.)

My dad had been in congestive heart failure for over ten years. He'd been told by every specialist, general practitioner, nurse, whomever that he'd ever seen, "You're not going to live much longer." How could he? He was poisoning himself with everything he ate or drank. It was some strange miracle of luck that he'd managed to live as long as he had. He knew he was going to die, and soon. He could not have thought otherwise, and did not think otherwise, as evidenced by a comment from his own lips not so very long ago in response to the question, "Who do you think it will fall on when you die? Who do you think will be responsible for handling that?"

His answer? "What do I care? I'll be dead."

With no wife to shoulder the burden, he knew it would fall on The Older and myself. With The Older not having had a paying job in quite some time (She is the primary caretaker for her fiance's very ill mother, and cannot be away from the house for stretches of time, so this is more than understandable,) he knew it would fall on me, the daughter that was not his daughter, more by his own doing than genetics ever could have accomplished alone.

So there I sat, at this table, across from a mortician that seemed to have a Jones for very large numbers. I stared at him quietly as he explained that the stiff cardboard box they used to transport my dad's corpse to the crematorium cost more than 200 dollars. (A box. A cardboard box. Worth 200 dollars.) The transportation fee itself was enough to boggle the mind, not to mention the cost of the urn or the memorial pamphlets that had been printed up, apparently using pure gold leaf as paper, and the blood of infant angels as ink. I sat very, very quietly, staring at the ever growing numbers. I did not make a sound.

And I got angry. I got angry because, as terrible as it is to admit, I resented that as the daughter with the shitty relationship with this man, who was not my biological father and had never treated me as an equal child to begin with, I was staring down the barrel of a six thousand-dollar gun while trying to save for the birth and future of my unborn child. I got angry because not once in his life had he ever done anything responsible, and it never kept him up for one second at night how his childish ways hurt the people that had to make up for them. I got angry because he was a PARENT and should have done MORE, because we were good, dutiful children and deserved more. I got angry because The Older started crying again, as I (the youngest) signed papers and prepared to shoulder a very heavy financial burden that she could not help with, and so she was being crushed by a guilt I could not sooth with words or actions, and the inability to save her from that feeling ENRAGED ME. I got angry because ANGER is not the response a person should have when sitting in a funeral home trying to iron out the details of a parent's final arrangements. I got angry because what I wanted more than anything in the world right then was to punch the funeral director in the throat and chuck that fucking over priced urn through a window, and I am not proud of that.

The Boy tapped my shoulder, asked me to step out of the room with him. I snarked, "I don't want to step out of the room. I want to fucking leave." He asked me again, very softly, to step into the hall. So I did. Of course I did.

And then I lost my ever-loving mind. He hugged me while I scream-whispered about how my dad was a selfish, heartless fuck who never thought of anyone but himself for one second of his life, and how were we going to do this with a baby? He held my hand while I asked over and over and over, "Who DOES this to their kids? Who fucking DOES this to people they're supposed to love?" He told me it would be okay, that he would write a check right then to pay for half, when I started hyperventilating again about how we're having a baby, I can't afford this with a baby, oh my god, THE BABY. He soothed me when I demanded if he'd seen the look on The Older's face, the one that suggested she was either going to throw up or kill herself right there, and how could someone do that to her?

I said 'fuck' more times than I can remember.

My sister and uncle came out of the office eventually with the funeral director in sheepish tow, and explained to me that since our dad had been a resident of the same county for the last 40 years, that county might be willing to help defer some of the funeral costs if we could find certain information. They needed his social security card, a copy of his lease, any titles he might possess, bank statements, etc. I growled that we would never find those things, as the man had never kept any sort of responsible record. They insisted we try, and so we went to his apartment.

Walking into the room where my dad died had absolutely no affect on me. I looked at the chair his body was found in, and wondered if he had been comfortable. I hoped that he had. The Boy and The Older went to search our dad's vehicle while The Uncle and myself poked around the apartment. Long story short: We found what we needed. The county deferred close to four thousand dollars of the funeral cost, and I was absolutely floored.

I cannot describe how grateful I was and am that a system exists to assist people with this burden. While The Boy and I could have paid the full cost, it would have put us in a precarious position, one where ANY unexpected cost would have put us very, very close to being shit out of luck monetarily. The fact that we were not put in that position but instead are still able to pay our medical bills and our house payment without having to beg, borrow and steal, is something I will never stop being thankful for.

Things I will never, ever forget or find my way around to accepting:

-The fact that my father was selfish down to his last atom, and his self absorption was entirely complete and unrelenting. This was evidenced not only by the total lack of insurance, etc, but more so by the *very large* quantity of something he should not have had that was found in his apartment. He had it and knew that if anything happened to him we would find it, and didn't care what that would do to my sister, how it would hurt her to know that he had been such a different person than she thought he was.

-The way a business or industry can capitalize on the misfortune of those that have lost a family member or loved one, going so far as to QUADRUPLE their cost and absolutely ROB people blind.

-Finding the papers my aunt had gathered for him, the papers that simply required a signature to insure his life, shoved in the back of a drawer in the kitchen and forgotten.

-My surprisingly violent reaction to the above three points.

-The fact that my sister will form this experience into a club and use it to bludgeon herself for the rest of her life, feeling guilty for not being able to help do what needed to be done, because he couldn't be responsible for himself and keep that burden from her shoulders.

-Going into false labor as soon as we got home. Having contractions and mind bending nausea for hour after hour because my body was coming down from the stress of the last week. Being so thankful that it stopped because, although my baby could be born now and survive, he needs more time. Don't we all need more time?

-That the predominant emotion associated with this whole shebang, for me, was anger and frustration. Anger that my father, who I loved deeply despite how I know it seems, could not care enough for his daughter - The Older - to take care of himself, or at least be marginally responsible for her sake. Anger that I'm angry, because it's easier than being sad for him and my sister and myself. Frustration that everything he ever said or did seems like lie after lie, in the current light, and he said he'd never lie to us.

Hmph.

2009-10-09T19:31:00.001-07:00

I'm feeling kind of 'eh' these days. I want to post, I just don't know what about. I feel like I've forgotten this place, and that makes me sad on my insides. It's just, I don't know what to say about anything right now. Nothing is bad, everything is great, I just... don't know what to say.

Trying to get it figured out. Will update as soon as I do. Cross your fingers for me - figuring shit out has never been my strong suit.

Done sulking.

2009-09-27T22:13:00.000-07:00

A guy I work with knew I was working on a pretty good sulk today, so he told me this joke. It only works if you say it out loud.

Him: Knock, knock.

Me: Who's there?

Him: Smell mop.

Me: Smell mop, who?

And I don't remember what he said after that, because I was laughing so hard I was literally in tears. Because I'm an 8 year-old boy, that's why.

Poo and fart jokes never stop being funny. Or if they do, I don't ever want to be that mature. Lucky for me, I'm not yet, and when he told me that joke today, it really did snap me out of my funk. As soon as I was done laughing (seriously, 5 minutes later) I called The Boy and the conversation is as follows:

Me: Have a joke for you, wanna hear it?

Him: Sure. Shoot. *Obviously does not want to hear it. Is afraid to have conversation with The Girl, as she is hormonal and emotional and the joke is probably a trap that will leave him crippled in some way.*

Me: *Doesn't care. Soldiers on in an attempt to bridge that awkward post-argument gap.* Knock, knock.

Him: Who's there?

Me: *Insane giggling for long enough that it gets awkward, which makes for more hysterical laughing*

Him: *uncertain silence*

Me: *gasp, gasp* Smell mop. *more cackling*

Him: What? Smell mop? Smell mop, who?

Me: *COMPLETELY LOSING MIND. He just said poo, ohmagah, DYING*

Him: Glad to see you're feeling better.

...It's the little things. And I should mention, for posterity: As much griping as I do about The Boy's mom, she is a wonderful woman. She's come through some serious shit in her life, and deserves a lot of respect. We just... we're going to butt heads. I'm up for that, and I'm sure she is, too. So here's to a future full of biting my tongue and sucking it up. Hopefully, it's also a future full of poo jokes. That would be fun, too.

Miniscule. Tiny. Obsolete. Subatomic.

2009-09-27T14:37:00.000-07:00

My sister is throwing me a baby shower. She's making the invitations individually, by hand, and doing everything from half way across the country. She contacted The Boy's mother to get addresses for close family, letting her know that there was a limited amount of space at whatever venue she's found for the day, and that since the invitations are hand made, there is a limit on how many can be done by the time she wants to send them out... The Boy's mother came back with a huge list of people. She was told again to pare it down, and answered with, "Well, maybe I'll just invite A FEW of my friends." ... Her friends? People I've never met? To my shower? Is this what people do..? Especially when told "List needs to remain small and intimate." Uh... Okay. But... Um. No.

So. The Boy called his mother to tell her to keep it simple. Close family, that's it. She said she doesn't want any one's feelings to get hurt, she wants to invite her friends, and he told her that no one wants anyone to be left out, but there's a limit. She then told him that she didn't see why she couldn't invite two of his ex girlfriends mothers.

Wait. What?

This is where I kind of tuned out. I mean, not intentionally. It felt like someone stuffed cotton in my ears. She wants to invite the Ghosts of Relationship Past to the baby shower that's being thrown for his current girlfriend..? In celebration of the baby they're having together? What. The. FUCK. I seriously felt like I was going into shock. He must've keyed in on the expression on my face, because he said, "Well, I told her no." I said, "Really? She really wants to invite your exes' mothers?" And he said, "Well, but, I told her no."

...somehow, that isn't getting through the haze right now. Somehow, all I can think is, "Really? His ex girlfriends mothers?" SOMEHOW, the fact that she was told NO isn't the FUCKING POINT.

I know that I'm not part of this equation to her. I know I'm just the weird, artsy girl that thinks she's too good for disposable diapers and formula, that's going to turn her first grandchild into a bookish softy; the girl that her perfect son accidentally knocked up, the poor boy. I know that. But really..? The fact that him saying no wasn't enough, that he had to explain to her why it wasn't a good idea for his ex girlfriends MOTHERS (who she doesn't even talk to. They aren't besties or anything, she doesn't even have regular contact with these people,) to come to MY SHOWER, and that she sort of fucking fought with him (!) about it? That... I just... I... REALLY?

Maybe I'm just hormonal. I don't know. Maybe I really have been an orphan for long enough that I've forgotten how families work, how they step over lines and boundaries and whatever. But I'm pretty sure this wouldn't sting half so bad if I had a mother, too... But I don't, and it does, and I hate it. I don't want the mothers of random strangers invited to my baby shower. I especially don't want the mothers of my boyfriend's ex girlfriends, who are also strangers, invited to my baby shower.

And you know the kicker? Apparently, that makes me silly. It's just silly of me. I'm being silly, she says. Silly to only want friends and family there. Silly to not let this be about her and what she wants. I'm not the only one having a baby. (WHAT?! I mean, I know it takes a village but WHAT!?)

Well fuck that. I want to go to bed. I want to go to sleep. There's a difference between someone knowing they don't matter, knowing they're just hardly being tolerated, and having it throw in in their face that you don't give a shit about them or their feelings.

I'm not sure I've ever felt so very small.

To the victor.

2009-09-20T14:14:00.000-07:00

I went to an auction today. I'd never been to one before, and I was lured to the scene by the loud chatter and the furniture strewn haphazardly around the property. Not to mention the dozens of people wandering around, looking predatory. Seemed like my kind of place. It was actually really interesting, although it probably would have been more fun if I'd had someone there with me that I knew, or had gotten more than 4 hours of sleep, or wasn't 7 and a half months pregnant, or wasn't loitering in the heat.

Actually, it wasn't hot. It was a nice morning. But I threw a hoodie on over my white tshirt in favor of finding an appropriate undergarment (because I'm classy like that) and the hoodie happened to be black. And we all know what happens when you wear black in direct sunlight. I know this particularly well, as most of my clothing for the majority of the last few years has been black.

You melt, is what I'm saying. You roast in the sun like a pig on a spit, and I was one very hot pregnant piggy.

There was only one thing I wanted at the auction. It was a beautiful big chest/dresser/antique pile of beautifulness, and I wanted it for the baby's room. And it was going to be perfect in a way that nothing else ever has been. It was going to complete my life. It was going to be in our family for generations. I kept my eye on it, and loved it, and pictured it in the nursery. I named it Fernando and whispered sweet nothings into its keyholes.

I was going to pay 200 bucks for it, and I would have gotten it, too, if some fucking burnout hippie pile of shit hadn't popped up next to me and decided to blow this week's drug money on MY FUCKING DRESSER.

Uh. Or... yaknow, whatever.

Seriously, though, it was like magic. That hippie jacked the price of the dresser up to $400 before I could blink, bidding back and forth with this tiny, angry looking woman. The auctioneer went back and forth, back and forth, chattering about four hundred, who's gonna give four hundred? And I almost bit! I almost paid 400 for it! But then I pictured myself trying to explain to The Boy why I felt like it was necessary to buy the baby a(nother) $400 piece of furniture, and I died a little bit inside when I realized that the look he would give me (The "You're a retard and it's obvious I need to keep you sedated and chained to a pipe in the basement from now on," look) would probably actually serve to lower my IQ, just by the pure force of it. And he's never given me a look like that. And I'd like to keep it that way. So I didn't out-bid the fucking burnout hippie pile of shit.

*sigh*

And now my life is doomed to suck, because that dresser was beautiful and perfect. It had doors on top that opened to an amazing cabinet I was going to use to store the baby's cloth diapers. The cloth diapers that also apparently make ME a hippie, YOU BUDDY-FUCKING, BACKSTABBING TRAITOR, HIPPIE GUY. We're on the same TEAM here.

SON OF A BITCH.

I'm not a materialistic person. I don't really care about stuff. You should have seen The Boy and I when we were buying furniture. There was so much, "I don't care, what do you think?" being tossed back and forth between the two of us, I thought the lovely sales lady's skull cap was going to blow off and tear a hole in the ceiling. We aren't STUFF kind of people. We don't need a lot of STUFF. We don't want a lot of STUFF. Hell, the stuff we DID wind up buying is varying shades of brown and beige because you know why? Because we don't give enough of a crap to bother with anything else. Because it's stuff, and this way it'll all look nice together, so fuck it.

But I wanted that goddamned dresser. And we NEED a dresser for the baby's room. I wanted it and I needed it and FUCK THAT OLD HIPPIE RIGHT IN HIS WRINKLY FACE.

Blame it on nesting, I guess, or hormones, or the fact that I'd been waiting in the sun, roasting like a chunk of beast for like TOO LONG, or whatever, but I literally almost got into a knife fight with that old (probably pacifist) stoner over a piece of furniture. I wanted to pull a razor out my titties and cut a bitch.

But I didn't. And now I don't have the dresser. Or any dresser. And any dresser I do manage to find isn't going to be as good as that one. A stranger even said it was perfect, when I told her what I wanted it for. Word, Sympathetic Stranger Lady. YOU'RE TELLIN ME.

Moral of the story: When you get the opportunity to shank a drug addled senior citizen to get what you want, take that opportunity and work it like it's your bitch. Do a boot dance straight up that old hippie's ass and take what's rightfully (or not, actually, not at all) yours.

My childhood was dark. Literally.

2009-09-15T14:45:00.000-07:00

My first memory is of heat and yellow-orange shadows flitting through stained glass, cool mesh pressed against my too-warm cheeks because it felt nice. There is the soft, faded smell of pipe smoke and wood polish. I can hear people, though I never see them, and am content.

I asked my mother about this years ago, and she said that when I was a baby, I would sit in the old play-pen in my grandmother’s sitting room with the lights turned off, pressing my face to the side. (The lights were off because the house was ANCIENT and did not have air conditioning. Also, there was very little insulation in the walls, and the ceilings were incredibly high. None of this lent itself towards keeping heat out or in. The pipe smoke was a reminent from my grandfather, who had died 15 years before.) She mentioned in an off-hand way, through a blue-silver shimmer of cigarette smoke, that we must certainly have a picture of it somewhere, as I did this face pressing thing all the time. This never turned out to be true because there exist no pictures of me as a baby. Probably she meant to take one upon catching me with my wee baby face mooshed against the side of the play pen, but didn’t have a camera on hand. (I don’t think we had a camera.)

In any case, she said I was one or two years old when this memory must have planted itself in my brain. She said the play-pen was one of those dangerous old metal and mesh contraptions with the baby-killing collapsible sides. I also remember pinching my fingers in the hinges, and pulling it down on myself more than once. Somewhere in all of this, I remember the heavy, erratic thud-thumping of my older (younger) sister storming around the house. The sound is of her full-leg casts pounding against the hard wood floors, and is often punctuated by her sweet baby laughter.

**

My mind skips ahead from there. Again it is dark, and this time the darkness is complete except for candle and day light. Instead of stifling heat, it's always slightly cold now. This is due to our electricity being turned off more often than not, despite the fact that our mother works 3 jobs, 20 hours a day to provide for us. It’s two years after the hot, shaded comfort of my grandmother’s house.

My sisters are there, and any time I go to this period in my life I am overwhelmed with a bone-crushing love for my older (younger) sister. I can see her as she was then, almost-black hair down her back, thick bangs straight across her sweet, pale, round face. Too blue eyes staring wide and innocent out at the world. She was maybe four years old, and already terribly kind and thoughtful. (This is how she still looks to me inside, how she looks to my soul, if that makes any sense.) She was my first friend, my best friend, and I was her shadow. She was everything to me. We played happily, constantly.

I remember our oldest sister, too, but in stark contrast to The Older… The Oldest scowled, was frequently too harsh with her words and hands, and was tasked too often with watching her nuisance siblings, 15 years her junior.

I see our mother in this chunk of time only briefly, fleetingly, and am stricken by how beautiful and perfect she was. (The knowledge that I realized even then that she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever see comforts me, as it comforted her when I relayed the childhood observation to her twenty years after it had occurred to me, whispered against her hand as she lay in the hospital, dying, though we didn’t yet know it.)

We lived in a small trailer, the four of us, and my toddler bed was in the closet of the room my sisters and I shared. I had a long yellow blanket with white fringe trim that I dragged with me everywhere, which bore a redish-pink stain from the time I used The Oldest’s favorite fingernail polish to paint part of our bedroom wall. I thought it would make her happy. It most decidedly did not.

***

At the very end of this cold, dark period, I see my mother in a wooden dining chair (or a large, black chair. The memory wavers on this one detail alone,) she is crumpled and crying. Her hands shake as they cover her face. The Oldest is sitting in the corner, curled into another chair, glaring out at the world but seeming for once less aggressive and more wounded. More human. As our mother cries, I curl myself around one of her legs and tell her it’s going to be alright, and that I love her. She cries harder, wracked with these animalistic sobs, and the man we call my father appears in the doorway to take The Older and I away. This is my memory of my mother’s first psychotic break in my lifetime.

(To be continued..)

Pray for us sinners, now and in the nursery full of cloth diapers.

2009-09-09T19:30:00.001-07:00

So, The Boy went outside today and ran into our neighbors to the South. We know them- we work with The Mr. occasionally on a professional basis, and are passing hi-how-are-ya nodders with The Mrs. I'll mention quickly that no one has ever met The Boy and failed to love him and find him engaging and charming. Uh. Ever. He's like a cobra, the way he hypnotizes people into worshiping him, which is funny because The Mr. is a pastor. Or... Preacher. Or something. He's a guy at a church. I don't know which church, so I don't know the correct title, but you get me. And The Mrs. is heavily (heavily, heavily, heavily) involved with the church, as well.

This is all well and good. We don't care. We rather like them and all of their super holy judginess, although I have frequently guessed that The Mrs. is more than a little uncomfortable with us right next door, sinning it up. She's never said anything. She's very sweet. But I often picture her over there in her house coat (and bonnet? I don't know why,) praying for our immortal souls.

So today, The Boy is standing there talking over the hedge, like they do on Leave It To Beaver or whatever, and notices that The Mrs. has a pretty package in her hand. "Going to a birthday party?" he inquires.

"No." She says.

Here, we insert a long, awkward pause. (This is all second hand from The Boy, and he is not given to exaggeration. When he says there was a good couple of minutes full of pointed, eerie silence, he means it.) The Mrs. stares at The Boy, and The Mr. shuffles his feet uncomfortably. Well, okay. No explanation, nothing further at all. The Boy rather got the impression that she was intentionally not elaborating on her negation for some reason.

Finally, The Mrs. says, "How's your girlfriend? And the baby?"

The Boy, being sweet, misses the tone and says, "Oh, she's great. The baby's going good, just had an appointment. He's kicking and healthy and-"

"Oh, good. We're off to Bible Study now." Interjects The Mrs. with obviously arched eyebrows and bulging eyes, turning on her heel and walking away.

When The Boy related this story to me, I almost choked to death on my Sprite because really? REALLY? Why didn't she just come out and say that she wouldn't be giving notice of her whereabouts to any ungodly terrorists such as ourselves, and ask us how our premarital sex was going? I don't know, maybe we left the window open one night and she could hear us thumping away in there, but I've never met someone so off-put by the living situation of her neighbors. Sure, we're young and unmarried and pregnant. But she's holy and old and judgemental, and you don't see us getting all up in HER grill about it.

So, whatever. Apparently we're adding the neighbors to the list of people we need to explain ourselves to. On the top of that list is every member of The Boy's family, each balancing one toe over the fucking line and trying my patience on a bi-weekly basis.

Maybe I've been an orphan for too long, so I've just grown accustom to making my own choices and not having to detail the why's and what for's of every move I make. I don't know. Maybe I'm just a crabby bitch. But man, do I get tired of having to tip toe through the tulips with these people, afraid to offend them with my "earth mother" sensibilities.

One of the big choices I feel like I have to justify is the Cloth Diaper (DUN DUN DUUUUUUN) Issue. You'd think everyone would be all gung-ho about it, because there's nothing wrong in the world with cloth diapers. They've never hurt anyone, they don't break into your house and hold you at knife point, demanding the combination to your safe. So you'd THINK that we'd all be excited about the totally harmless, happy little endeavor. But no. Apparently, here in the upper Midwest, we're more than a little terrified of things that are New and Different (or old? Because not so many years ago everyone used cloth? Hello?) and the Dirty Hippies that try to infiltrate our families.

I'm the dirty hippy here, if you're not tracking. I didn't want to lose anyone. Because I've never killed anything with my bare hands, I guess.

Honest to god, when I mentioned the cloth diaper plan to The Boy's mother, I could almost hear her brain petrifying. Why on Earth would someone want to do something differently than she had? Because different is wrong. AND HIPPIES ARE FROM HELL. Go brand a cow, you pansy ass tree hugger, YARR! (So I guess in my mind pirates are the back woods farmer type?)

Feh. Whatever, I don't understand the problem. To me, there is no problem. I'm really, really excited about doing cloth, and I feel great about the decision to do it. I want to do it very badly. I haven't yet ordered the diapers, but I think I've settled on the Fuzzibunz one-size. I only mention this because, okay, I'm a freeloading jerkface, and there's a wonderful blog (http://pacingthepanicroom.blogspot.com/) that is right now, right this moment, threatening to give away a whole MESS of FB one-size diapers to people who link to the FB cite. And man, I could use that. We aren't destitute, but cloths are a little expensive to get up and going, and with this economy... well, you know the rest.

So yeah. The innitial investment is kind of a chunk of change, (But MUCH MUCH MUCH LESS THAN THE COST OF DISPOSABLES OVER TIME) and it'd be nice to have that cost differed. So I figured I'd link to the FB cite (Fuzzibunz.com) and throw my hat into the ring.

Because you know what would REALLY get The Boy's mom's short and curlies in a knot? If her tree-hugging someday-to-be daughter-in-law got her hippy diapers for FREE! And in all seriousness, I think they have a great product going over at FB, so I want to help get the word out. It isn't that I think people who use disposables are doing something wrong, not at all. I just like the idea of doing cloths for ME, PERSONALLY, with MY (still unborn, but not for too much longer) kid. It feels good. It's a choice I feel really solid about, and it irks my tater that TBM feels the need to drag me down about it.

Much like my neighbors and their fear of premarital sex and childbirth out of wedlock.

I mean, really. What gives, people?

(Seriously, with The Boy's Mom -- I've gotten to the point that I don't even talk about the parenting choices we intend to make. Don't even get me started on circumsision and how last Wednesday her skull cap blew off and knocked a hole the size of a Mercedes in our drywall. Holy crap.)

And so I wait.

2009-09-07T06:22:00.000-07:00

I feel like I've been puttering around in a fog, arms swinging, feet bare, aimless. Waiting for direction in this strange place that is foreign and also so familiar.

I feel like I shouldn't mark a heading, should just drift for a while. I feel like I can't take a conscious step in any one direction. So I wander.

You know, my ex, the one that said I was personally responsible for the downfall of all things good and decent after I told him to get his shit and get out, he told me once that I was a floater, not a swimmer. And as much as I would like to discount everything he ever said as baseless and asinine after that little 'you destroy everything you touch, you ruthless harpy' comment, I think he might have been onto something.

I'm not a goer, not a doer. I don't make plans, I let the plans make themselves apparent and then I go with them, toward them. This isn't a part of my personality that I'm comfortable with. It sings to me of weakness, of a lack of character. Strong people make choices. They have goals. They fall short, they have regrets, they make mistakes. They don't putz around in the fog because they're too scared to step into the light.

I don't, as a rule, have regrets. I've always told myself it's because I think its wasteful to regret things you cannot change, and that regretting something devalues the experience itself and what can be gained from it. The past is the past, we can only try to do better. We can refuse to make the same mistakes. This is not to say that I'm not sorry -- I am, more than I can say, for more mistakes than I can name. I'm sorry for the people I've hurt and the things I've done that were hurtful or wrong. I'm sorry to have been the thing to cause pain in anyone's life. But being sorry isn't enough, and it's not the same as regretting the thing itself. So instead of regret, I promise to do better.

Maybe they are one in the same, maybe I'm confused. Maybe feeling sorrow for something you've done is the same as regretting it. Although I would like to think that I do not regret things because I take them for what they are, appreciate them, learn from them, and change my behavior accordingly. So while I'm sorry for the pain they've caused, I'm not sorry they happened because they brought about an opportunity for growth and change.

If that makes any sense. Hell, I don't know. I've been running on fumes here, which is adding to the murky atmosphere of the dream-like state I've found myself shuffling through.

I feel like I'm letting go, and I don't know if that's okay. I don't have anything to judge 'appropriate behavior' by, and so I wonder frequently if I'm seconds away from a massive mistake. This letting go, stepping back, it scares me.

See, my mother held onto things very tightly. She was a paranoid schizophrenic, with borderline multiple personality disorder. (Although what that means, I can't begin to guess. She almost had more than one personality? She was close? She sometimes did? Doctors make no sense. Fuck them.) With these issues you'd expect a person to be obviously impaired in some way, one of those poor souls you can point out at the grocery store as being a little off. Different. She wasn't, though. The woman was incredibly high functioning, intentionally so. She decided that no one would ever look at her with pity, with that knowing little nod of "Poor dear. Bless her heart." She held herself in check with an iron fist, fooling everyone, even her doctors. This, I think, is most of the reason that when she was home, she so frequently imploded. I think it must have been very hard to maintain such a level of control, very stressful, so when she got home (a relatively safe place, as much as any place could be for her) she would release all of it. She would let go. Or maybe it was just the fingers of that iron fist finally breaking, I don't know. In any case, the result of her rigid self control while in the outside world was often complete disorder in her own. Our own.

And so letting go scares me. As much as I drift, float, have no point on the compass that I aim for, whatever, I do try to maintain some level of control. How could I not? I know what happens when you let go. People get hurt. Mistakes are made.

Yet here I am. I have no desire to take the reigns at this point, none whatsoever. My life has somehow wound up where it is, by some miracle of whatever god you believe in and by absolutely no determined, conscious choice of my own. So maybe letting go isn't so bad. Maybe whatever spark of luck brought me to where I am will continue to sustain me. Maybe if I don't move, it won't wink out. I hope. I have to hope, because I feel as if I may have crippled myself at this point, and hope is all I have to rely on.

It's just that I have this feeling, this looming sense of OH SHIT, that as soon as I make a move toward something it's going to get jerked away. Just now, not always. I'm afraid that once I really realize that this baby is 2 months and some change away from being born, that something will happen. Once I decide to believe it, I'm afraid that he'll be taken away. This is why I do not make choices, if I'm being honest: I'm afraid to regret. I'm afraid of the pain. Once, when I was younger (And believe me, I'm still young enough) I was brave. I forged ahead, marching with ill-begotten confidence down whichever path I felt suited me best at the time.

Then it all fell down around me and left me on my knees, shocked and shaken and destroyed.

I can't do that again. I can't come back from that again.

And so I drift, and I hope, and I wait to see what will happen. I keep my eggs in my pockets, my basket empty in my hand. I refuse to invest in this future until it is here in front of me. It's too good to be true. I won't ruin it by breathing.

Woops.

2009-09-06T13:48:00.000-07:00

It's just been brought to my attention (thank you, Maggie) that I haven't updated here in long enough that I feel like a giant asshole because hello, Cliffhanger, how are you? So! Quick update!

We had an ultrasound that showed the baby's perfect little black and white beating heart. It looked like a real heart, bisected in a magazine. It was amazing. Identifiable. Unbelievable.

He's bigger, too, noticeably so. The poor lamb has his legs tucked up to either side of his belly, his arms curled around his head. This seems to be due to the fact that there is NO room inside my belly.

The doctor said that as far as he can tell, everything is okay. He kept stressing "As far as I can see," and "I've been wrong before," which... not comforting.

We have another appointment in two days (one day? Eh. On the 8Th,) to see what's going on in there.

I promise I'll write more tomorrow. I've just been kind of... wandering around over here. Trying to figure it all out.

My hospital gown smelled like doughnuts.

2009-08-26T16:44:00.000-07:00

So, we wound up in Labor and Delivery the other night.

It had been about 14.5 hours since I'd felt the baby move, and after trying several different little tricks (ranging from drinking juice/putting feet up, to prodding the stomach and clapping into my belly button like I was looking for an echo) that all failed beautifully, the OB nurse and I decided I should probably come in. The baby has been active for months, and has always recently been up for a little game of Seriously, Stop Messing With Me, wherein I push on the outside of his warm little water balloon, and he pushes immediately back. Now that he didn't want to play, the nurse was concerned and just wanted to check me out. I agreed. And so we went.

Doesn't that sound all nice and calm? Yeah, it wasn't.

Before the trip to the ER to be admitted, I took a couple of minutes to lie on our bed and beg the baby to kick, tears running down my cheeks and onto the pillow under my head. This is the absolute last thing I want to do, I kept thinking, I don't want to take precautions or run tests or make any move toward the possible answers to, 'what if the baby's dead?' I wanted to be healthy, with a healthy pregnancy and a healthy baby. I wanted to be like everyone else, damn it, and so I lay there and hoped that I could be. I concentrated so hard, looking for a flutter or jab, anything to tell me he was in there. When nothing came, I finally had to nut up and rally, heave my pathetic self off of the bed, and get going. Because sometimes you just have to get going, no matter how badly you don't want to be where you'll end up.

On the way out the door, The Boy (who had up until that point been very 'it's probably all fine, I'll follow your lead, you know I don't panic' about it all) asked, "What will they do? How long will we be there?" A logical question asked in a voice that sounded 20 years younger than the lips it came from. The only chink in his so brave armor. It made me see stars.

"Well," I said, "if they don't find a heartbeat, we won't be there long at all. They'll hook us up to whatever machine they have to monitor the baby, make sure there's nothing, then we'll make follow-up surgical appointments. We'll be home in around an hour, I'd guess, all told. If they do... I don't have any idea what will happen. I've never been down the 'making sure the baby's alive and oh, look, he is!' road. They might keep me, they might not."

I didn't want to be cold, but after my little pity party on the bed, I didn't have room for much else without inviting absolute hysterics. So I answered him as calmly and as matter-of-factly as I could, while staring at the ground and trying not to scream. I wanted to be able to tell him what would happen when they found out everything was fine, but I just didn't know. I had nothing to go on when it came to babies living.

But I have now.

The nurse (who looked like a meth addict when she shuffled around the corner into the waiting room. Her eyes were half-closed and she looked stoned out of her mind. I actually looked at The Boy and said, "Oh, I don't fucking think so," as he dragged me down the hall after her. Turns out, she'd been on shift for like 19 hours, so whatever. Maybe she wasn't high after all. That'll teach me to judge, but yeah, she was totally high) led us to a room, handed me a hospital gown, and insisted I change. I insisted she take the gown away, because I didn't need to change and it would just be wasted on me. Hospital gowns and the wearing thereof imply that hey, you're not going anywhere, sucker. Best be letting your ass hang out now, because we're in it for the long haul. So I bemoaned the gown. Oh, how I bemoaned.

Apparently, heavy meth use makes you pig-headed. She wouldn't relent.

Something I discovered as a result of losing our little battle of wills: Hospital gowns in L&D at our hospital smell like doughnuts. They do, for real. When I put it on, I shuffled over to the boy and made him sniff me, and he agreed. Ask him.

After leaving us in the room alone to (panic) settle in, Nurse McMethy came back and advised me that she'd be "using these white things to strap you down to the bed." To which I shrieked, "STRAPMEDOWNWHY!?" and flailed my rotund ass around, craning to see just what in the crap kind of restraints she was coming after me with. (I swear to you, I had the tiniest of flashes of shit, they finally caught me, they think I'm crazy because it runs in my family and now they're going to commit me and I'm never going to leave. They think I'm insane, and they'll take my baby and leave me here forever, those FUCKERS, where's my knife when I need it, oh wait I don't own a knife. Okay, so maybe it was a big flash.)

This obvious burst of obvious fear, at least, got more than a sloe-eyed blink from Trackmark O'Rehab, and she explained that the straps were to hold the sensors to my stomach, and the sensors were to monitor the baby. God. Duh. Well, fucking FINE THEN, strap away.

Speedball LeBongwater hooked said sensors to my belly and immediately clapped her hands and said, "I found the baby!" Now. She said this like I would say "Look, a Buick!" if I were digging in a sand box. Given the fact that I was pregnant and we were looking for the heart beat, her initial surprise did nothing to convince me of her sobriety OR experience in her field, because dude? Why so shocked? Is this your first time, are you THAT high, or did you expect my child to be dead? None of these is an acceptable answer, by the way.

Anyway, she turned up the machine and we listened to the heartbeat for quite a long while, while she talked about I don't know what and I cried some more, whispering "Thank you, thank you. Thank you, God, thank you."

The heartbeat started out very soft and very slow, which worried The Boy quite a bit. At this point, I was on cloud 9. I was elated that we could hear anything, and so far beyond worry that I couldn't possibly be bothered with the specifics of WHAT we were hearing. Eventually, the heart rate sped up to a respectable clip, which also worried The Boy, and the nurse attempted to pacify everyone involved by noting that of course it would fluctuate. There is a PERSON in there, duh. (Listen, Doper, you didn't seem to expect anything to be in there but some lint and a used Q-tip, so how about we don't lecture the patients about what is or isn't wherever, hmm? And really. Duh is not a professional way to answer patients that are a LITTLE ON EDGE.)

We listened to the baby thump and move -which I could eventually, finally feel- in response to The Boy's side of the conversation. I cried some more. The Boy finally smiled, the light of realization easing the stressed furrow of his brow when I said, "See. I told you he can hear you. I told you he knows your voice," and he could hear that it was true.

After about 30 minutes, Heroin Von Cokeaddiction assured us that everything was probably fine but, wait, she wasn't really QUALIFIED to say that, so don't hold her to it. She told me to get dressed while she shuffled off to find a doctor. Someone, she assured us, that would be all certified in babies 'n shit.

Yes, really.

Turns out, MY doctor was the one on call, and we caught him right before he had to perform emergency surgery on a woman that had not been as fortunate as we were. He told me to make an appointment for an ultrasound with his nurses (He stressed the HIS part of the nurses, trying not-so-subtly to stay an arms length away from our mutual friend) and told me to do kick counts three times a day, coming back in if the numbers were too low.

So here we are. Tomorrow morning is the ultrasound, and we'll find out if there's something wrong or if the kid was just feeling relaxed. Really, really, really relaxed...

Can I tell you I've been a wreck since the hospital? And I haven't been treating anyone very nicely because they're all loud and stupid and I just want to sit here and concentrate on the baby kicking and they won't just go the hell away and leave me to it? And that I'll be a wreck until my doctor looks at me and says, "It's okay. Breathe. Everything's going to be okay." because I am so, so scared? Can I admit, just here, that my head hurts so badly not from the stress itself, but because I've been scowling/squinting so hard as I listened internally to those little kicks for the last couple of days, that I'm actually injuring myself?

I'm crossing my fingers until they break. I would pray, but I don't know that God wants to hear much from me in the way of bargaining. And so I just ask for strength. I ask for the grace not to take this out on The Boy. I hope for peace. It's all I can do. It's not enough, but it's all I have.

Swing away.

2009-08-11T17:10:00.000-07:00

Wasn't that what the dying wife in the movie Signs said? "Tell (I forget his name) to swing away"? Or whatever?

I might be making that up. There's been a serious lack of sleep in my life lately, due to strange dreams where everyone has this other alien, strange creature living inside their body in a bubble, and people have to talk to these creatures and clear everything with them, like, "Hey, Mr. Bubble, do you think we should have milk or water?" and it's all really distracting for me because while I'm dreaming these dreams I'm so put out thinking that it's all so fucking inconvenient and pointless, because what difference does it make? And then I realize (while still dreaming) that the dreams are all kind of really obviously about my pregnancy because I call my belly Mr. Bubble and being pregnant is just like having some weird creature living inside of you, so I'm kind of lamenting the entire time I'm asleep that I'm not really very deep or original and that my subconscious mind is SO. FUCKING. BORING. And anyway, it's none too restful.

So yeah. I'm tired.

What I was starting to say was that I intend to do like the dying lady said and swing away from the seriousness that's been going on around here lately, but instead of Light and Jovial, I seem to have wandered into Strange and Confused. Which, yeah. I'm comfortable there. Hell, I've got a summer home there. I spend every freakin' weekend there. I just kind of didn't mean to bring you with me.

Bygones.

Anyway, what I meant to convey was that I don't mean to be so down and dreary, ruminating about my past and my childhood and my family issues. They've just been on my mind a lot lately, as I'm about to shape a childhood of my own and speaking of which! I just remembered my original point when I sat down to post this but then thought it was maybe a titch too heavy. I'm obviously throwing that out the window now, though, so here goes.

I saw a question posed today on a blog I read. Someone said that they were going to give their children the best of everything; the most love, attention, adoration, security, etc, because their childhood had been so bad and they had never had those things themselves. The response from a commenter was that the author had made him wonder whether happy childhoods had to come from an unhappy childhood before them. Meaning, did my childhood have to suck in order for me to want so badly to make my kid's life easier than mine was?

At first, I agreed with that. I thought, hey, that's pretty deep. Now I think it's not deep, but rather ridiculous. I'm sure there are plenty of people that had perfectly balanced, 'normal' developmental periods in their lives and went on to use those years as a foundation on which to build a happy childhood for their own offspring. I don't think you need to have been warped in some way in order to piece something happy together for your kids, not at all.

It was an interesting question, none the less. What do you think? Do happy children have to come from parents who had something missing, so they know what's important? Or can people who've had a less obviously traumatic time of things go on to give the same steady, peaceful childhood to their children because it is all they know?

Wonderland.

2009-08-04T18:40:00.000-07:00

Caterpillar: Who are YOU?

Alice: This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. I -- I hardly know, sir, just at present -- at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.

I used to be much more high strung. I used to be much more scared. Terrified, even, if we're being honest, which we are. Terrified of everything but unable to show it at all. I used to worry much more. I would become preoccupied with details and how they would affect my world. One such preoccupation stands out in my mind, and I always go back to it, poking at the thing as I wonder at the why of it.

My sister and I lived with our dad and our uncle, his brother, in a small blue house when we were very young. Our mother had given up custody of us when she'd found that working 4 jobs and raising three girls alone was to her brain like an axe would be to a cantaloupe... She had to give us to him, or she didn't know what would happen. She didn't know what she might do. So my older sister and I were taken away by our dad (my sister's dad. We weren't acknowledging then, when I was hardly more than a toddler, that we didn't know who mine was,) and our mother disappeared for close to a year. We didn't hear from her then at all. She needed to be free from us completely, and so she was.

She would not want us back for almost nine years, at which time we would go happily. Little did any of us know how well that would turn out...

There was rust-colored shag carpet in the living room of my uncle's house, and roach clips in the ashtrays on the coffee table. Our (her) dad did the best he could, and our uncle tried hard to help. Still, there were unreasonable expectations (answering the phone, "Hello, Ournamehere residence, how may I help you?" at four years old) because two single men had no idea what to expect from two small girls. We all did our best. It turned out okay for the most part. We were okay.

I remember that at some point in those years, I developed the habit of sitting on the cement stoop out front of the house for hours, the concrete cool through my shorts, staring up at the hunter green leaves of the beautiful old tree that dominated the yard. The tree we couldn't touch. It was infested with red ants and they would sting you, so we could not have a swing or a tree house, or any of the things that good-natured old giant would have been so well suited to. We could not so much as brush against it, let alone climb its gnarled old branches, lest we come away with stinging welts and nothing but a grumbled I told you so for our troubles.

I don't remember when I started counting the leaves, but I do remember very specifically never being able to get beyond 77. It wasn't that I couldn't count higher - of course, I could - it was just that I would get so far and become positive that I'd missed one. You see, the leaves all had to touch each other. I had to move from one to the next by way of them caressing each other above my head. And so I would sit there with my arms around my legs, counting, following tenuous lines of contact between each part of this tree that had become my friend, and suddenly find myself convinced that I had missed one leaf. So I would start over.

This went on for hours.

I just didn't want any of them to be left out. I wanted them all to know they mattered, that I saw them.

I think I was 5 or 6 years old when this started. It eventually morphed into a habit of counting in my head when I would find myself under stress - which was often. I would count by multiples of three, five or seven. I also started keeping very close track of my conversations -- when it was my turn to talk, I would count the words that I spoke, then count the letters in the words. I would divide the letters by the words and that is how many times I would blink the next time my conversation partner was speaking.

It was a lot to keep track of for someone so young, but it was my way of distracting myself.

From what, I still don't know.

My sister and I were not abused, though I recognize this sort of obsessive compulsive behavior as similar to the way someone who has suffered in some way would cope with the trauma. There is a similar parallel between my sister's sweet and childlike nature and the mannerisms of a person unable to mature due to some kind of deeply rooted infliction. The only trauma I can see is being separated from our mother, who was obviously in distress and unable to deal with the pressure of being a parent.

And so, I cannot see why I developed this habit of counting so obsessively. I cannot see what it helped me cope with. I do know that I was only able to force myself to stop doing it a few years ago, and now I don't do it at all. I also know that for most of my life I lived in constant fear of everything, unable to show it lest I disappoint or let someone down. In those days in the light blue house, I had my sister to look after, the both of us to raise. If I made our father unhappy by being weak, maybe he wouldn't love us and he'd give us up, and then where would we go? Childish, yes, but... It was the logic.

Perhaps that's where it all came from, where it started. Not that it matters now, I just find myself musing lately about things that happened so long ago. I can't help but marvel at how my life has turned, morphing into something entirely different than my early years would have lead me to believe possible. Just when it seemed I would careen down the same terrible path, winding up broken and breaking at the bottom in the same way my mother did, I find myself instead on level ground, looking around in surprise with new eyes. And I wonder at the luck that got me here.

Alice: But I don't want to go among mad people.

The Cat: Oh, you can't help that. We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad.

Alice: How do you know I'm mad?

The Cat: You must be. Or you wouldn't have come here.

We had it rough.

2009-08-03T15:02:00.000-07:00

My mother and I had it rough.

I think I was so hard for her because I was sort of a pre-death reincarnation of herself. Also, the subject of my birth and origins was a touchy one -- who do I come from, why won't you tell me, what would people say if I told them my husband wasn't your father? and I think it was a source of some embarrassment for her, to say the least. Not to mention constant aggravation once I realized the truth and started routinely begging for confirmation from her, which was always denied. She was too proud, and the truth hurt too much. I understood that and respected it. It was one of her many boundaries, and I could not force her into allowing me to cross it.

But man, I loved that woman. I loved her so much, it still aches inside of me. There's this place that was hollowed out, carved raw and left pulsing when she died. It takes my breath away sometimes, remembering out of nowhere that she's dead. (Not gone. Dead.) She was all I had, in a way. I don't know who my birth father is, and realized that at a very young age- so she was the well, the source, the only beginning, the entire history. I had so much - too much? - invested in her and our relationship, that it probably became difficult for her to live up to any of my expectations.

It was hard for my mother to live up to expectations in general. She had various and sundry medical conditions bouncing around inside her skull, some diagnosed, some not, but all adding just a pinch of disorder to situations that were commonplace for others. This included relations with the people around her - it's obviously going to be difficult for a very paranoid person to carry on a 'normal' relationship with someone, you understand. Or for someone with mild schizophrenia to view or handle routine circumstances with any degree of predictability.

Aside from her specific mental issues, her personality made it hard for her to sustain meaningful relationships. She hated birthdays, LOATHED Christmas. Any time someone expected something of her, she felt suffocated and resentful, like she had to arch and buck away from whatever she felt was binding her... be it social constructs or obligations, or her children...

See, there's not much difference between a friend wanting you to do something for them and a child expecting or needing a certain action. Not to someone like my mother. All of it boiled down to the same things: Constraint, obligation, expectations. Need. Demand. Want. All of it was often too much. It strained her.

And so, we had it rough. My older (younger?) sister has always been far more demanding emotionally than I am, far more needy than me. This was allowed and encouraged because there was something different and beautiful about her, something special and specific and queer. Something she could love without resentment. I observed this at a very young age - 3? 4? - and knew that while it was all I wanted in the world, to be adored the way my sister was by our mother, it would not be tolerated from me or anyone else. My mother needed me to be independent, needed me to stand alone. And so I did, because I loved her so much.

Over the years it became my responsibility to protect my older (younger. I always want to say younger. But she's not, she's 13 months older. Older, older, older,) sister, because her sweet nature left her needing protection and because it was what I could do for them both. Act as a buffer between my lovely (I say that without an ounce of sarcasm- she is everything good in the world, and I adore her completely) sister and the world around her, thus keeping the one thing my mother treasured above all else safe. It was what I did. It is what I do still. It is what I love and resent, this role I was obliged to take but now wouldn't know how to abandon.

By the time I was old enough to look my mother in the eye flat-foot, I started hearing you're too hard, you're too much work to love, I love you because I have to, because I'm your mother and I'm supposed to... by that time she had come around to brutal honesty because my personality and our likeness frustrated and often infuriated her, leaving her without any other weapon to wound me with. So she told me frequently and in great, imaginative detail how she hated what she had made me into.

It didn't matter, not really. I mean, at the time I could have killed her and never been sorry, just to stop the noise. But I didn't kill her, or even so much as raise a hand to her, because I loved her so fiercely that it was all I could to hate myself for not ever, ever being what she needed.

I only ever wanted to help her and never could have REALLY fathomed acting out against her, nor she against me. On my end this restraint was born of love and difference, the desire to keep her safe and happy.

My mother's restraint was a little bit different. By the time her Daily Rundown of Shit I Did Wrong (To Include Breathing and Blinking Occasionally) started, I was taller than she was by several inches, not that size tempered her fury much as it broke like waves against me. What kept her always raging at arm's length was that I could (did not frequently, but could) look at her without expression or reaction to the things she was doing or saying. I would watch her closely - you could never be certain she wasn't going to reach for a knife, although she only did once - and the more attention I paid, the more brightly her rage burned. She hated that I did not turn away from her. She longed to make everyone turn away so that she could be left alone with her self-loathing, without external expectations. She wanted badly to push us all away, occasionally desired to cause an emotional pain that could not be recovered from so that we would only hate her and leave her to hate herself.

But I could not turn away from her. How could I? Even in her fits, her frustration, her terrible anger at me that was brought on by nothing other than that we'd had the misfortune of my being born to her, she was beautiful. She was captivating to me. She was all I had, and I could no more leave her there to commit emotional suicide than I could slit her wrists myself. I knew even when she was tearing me apart at the seams that she loved me... She just didn't know what to do with it. And because I did not and could not turn my back on her, she could never summon the courage to strike me with any real determination. Having been terribly abused and tortured by her first husband, she could not wound the one that looked at her with only concern, love, and confusion in her eyes.

And so we had it rough. Me, constantly trying to keep her in check. Her, forever trying to thrust me away by any means necessary so that she could just be left the fuck alone already. My anger, frustration, FURY would occasionally rise to meet hers, but mostly I could not match the passion with which she threw herself into destroying me.

It was an odd thing. I know my mother loved me intensely. I know she was proud of me because she would say so occasionally, after I got older and moved out from under her feet. When we could breathe without the taste of each other's exhaled breath in our mouths, we found that we liked one another quite a lot. I was shocked at how easily I could surprise her into laughing with me, absolutely blown apart and rebuilt the first time I saw in her face a love that was untempered by frustration or anger. I can still see that expression in my mind, the surprise in her beautiful eyes at realizing that we were the same and it was okay. I can clearly remember the relief, thinking Dear God, finally.

By the time she died, we were quite close. Very close. My older (younger) sister was still the favorite. Our oldest sister was a close second. Then there was me, pulling up the rear, but at least I was on the list...

My mother had issues. Big ones. Serious ones. We all do, and if someone tells you they don't, they're a dirty liar and you should get away from them before the Earth cracks beneath their feet. (Because liars, if no one else, go to hell.) But I loved her intensely. Still do. She was perfect in the way that we all are. She taught me to see people, not disorders, and understand that everyone has motives and reasons behind everything they do and say- no matter how obscure or hard to understand. She showed me how to hate the deed, not the doer, how to love unconditionally and hang on 'till it hurts and after. How to push aside the iron curtain around someone you love and reach them underneath.

I was just thinking about that. Feeling the baby kick, wishing she was here. She would have been so happy to have herself another grandson. I would have been so happy to give her one.

I am the fighter that she made me into. I am the hard one, the difficult one. I am the one that does the things the others will not do. I am her daughter, and I am so proud of that. She was my everything once, and it will always be enough that I was part of hers, too.

In other news:

2009-07-28T20:31:00.000-07:00

My sister just emailed me out of nowhere and said there's a constant threat of monster solar flares burning away our ozone and leaving everything on Earth to fry.

Apparently, she didn't think I was paranoid enough.

Oh, good.

Some kind of monster.

2009-07-28T15:16:00.000-07:00

I went to get a new phone today because, although I don't believe I've mentioned it here, I FUCKING HATED MY PHONE. Hated with a passion that burned with the fire of a thousand suns. Hated A LOT. Which is all beside the point, it's not at all the point. I'm only mentioning it to procrastinate writing what I need to talk about, which is this:

I am a fucking monster. Now, before anyone gets any big ideas about how this is going to be one of those compliment fishing posts or I'm looking for someone to talk me out of feeling this way, you should wait. Wait and see why I say this. The only reason I'm sharing it is because seriously? People should be kept the hell away from me. Consider it a PSA and get the hell away. Just get away.

See, I was down at the phone place today getting myself a new phone because my old one was FROM FUCKING HELL, and I'm sitting there and I notice there's a flier on the representative's desk. I'm reading it upside down because I'm nosey like that, and I see two names I recognize. We'll say they're Dan and Judy. I think Hey, cool, I know a Dan and Judy, wouldn't it be funny if they're the same ones.

Then I see the picture. And it isn't cool, and I don't want to know this Dan and Judy anymore.

There's an under-lit photo of a blurry, unbelievably small person... Skin raspberry-red and ruddy and plastic-looking; delicate eyes hidden behind a black felt Zorro mask without the holes. A clear plastic tube disappearing between gaping, pencil-thin lips and down a tiny throat. Hands so small, the fingers look webbed.

There's another picture below it. Ink-stamped footprints. Between the foot prints is a penny to give perspective, and the feet are hardly bigger than the coin. Hardly bigger at all. The mind boggles, reels, spins away and gags, because feet that small are never attached to a body that lives.

I reached for the flier without asking, flipped it around to read what in the hell was going on...

Dan and Judy, friends I haven't seen in almost a year, were 6 months pregnant when Judy delivered their baby boy by emergency C-section less than 26 hours ago. The flier was asking for monetary donations to help differ the astronomical cost of hospital bills for mother and son, and hotel stays for the two parents to be able to stay near their tiny boy after discharge. They're 3 hours from home at a bigger hospital, and not that ANYONE has the money for this kind of thing, but Dan and Judy really don't. They've been hit with unemployment, are on assistance, and they struggle but they are so happy. Were so happy. Now that sunny disposition they face the world with has been clouded with fear and sorrow -- justified the first and premature the second because maybe, just maybe, their boy will make it. He could. They do, sometimes. They do. Don't they? He could.

I graduated with Dan, used to live downstairs from Judy. They've drifted out of my circle of consciousness and I from theirs, farther away than possible to be considered actual friends if any one's being honest. But I knew them once, and delight in seeing them still...

I didn't know they were pregnant. I didn't know Judy was having problems, bleeding problems, didn't know she'd lived the last 6 months of her life under the constant and very real threat of losing her son. I didn't know any of this, and it was a shock to the system, seeing this terribly small person who suddenly and surprisingly belongs to someone I care about. It seemed so unreal. Knowing that he may not live (babies aren't supposed to die.) Knowing how that must suffocate these two sweet people, staring at their son and willing him to hang on, baby, please hang on.

All of this registered in an instant, their terrible pain and fear and the delicate state of this tiny new person. It all flash-banged into my skull and became a part of my reality.

And then I made it about me. Because I'm a fucking asshole.

I started thinking, well, I'm 5 and a half months along -- only two weeks behind them. Jesus, would MY baby make it, would he live? Would they be able to save him? Would I be strong enough to go through what they're going through without scratching my own skin off and shrieking PLEASE HELP ME to anyone with ears? Would my baby die like theirs might? How could I recover from that again, I couldn't, I just know I couldn't.

I started looking for differences that would push me farther away from my friends and their situation, started feverishly scouring my mind for things that would put me apart from them and their tragedy. This lady says Judy started having problems at two months, I haven't had problems... She'd been on and off bed rest for the duration, I'm fine. We're fine. It's not going to happen to us. God, don't let it happen to us. She smoked -- I quit months before I got pregnant. She doesn't take much care of herself, I've been so, so careful.

You see. Monster.

I KNOW BETTER THAN THIS. Sometimes you can do everything right and the worst still happens -- has happened to me and people I know and love, IS happening NOW -- and yet there I was, like some superior, self important fuck, trying to convince myself that I was better or different so that terror wouldn't come knocking at our door. And you know what? Regardless of what Judy does, has done or hasn't done, no one deserves what she and her husband are going through right now and what in the hell kind of person has that reaction anyway!? These people, I know them, they are (were) friends, they're good people. How dare I...?

The representative was Judy's sister-in-law. She's going to take Judy and Dan's older girl (She's two. She's beautiful and perfect and sweet,) to see her parents tonight, making the drive after work. I pulled a hundred dollar bill out of my wallet, asked if I could give it to her for Judy and Dan and their boy.

It's not that I have hundreds lying around all the time. I was going to use that money to buy furniture for our baby...

But furniture is sticks and cloth and nails. It's material, it's nothing and it doesn't matter.

That money, when I handed it to that woman, became an extra night Dan and Judy can be close to their son without worrying how to pay for it. It became a bill that was just a little bit smaller.

It became a tangible apology for the guilt that woman didn't know I was feeling. I'm sorry for being so selfish, I'm sorry your son is sick and mine -thank God- is still where he belongs in my tummy, I'm sorry this happened to your family.

I'm sorry for being so scared. I'm sorry that hearing about your ordeal made me fear that the same could happen to us -- I'm sorry that, even if only in my mind, I treated you like your pain was contagious. I'm so sorry.

Dear TBM...

2009-07-26T11:05:00.000-07:00

Dear The Boy's Mom,

Hi. I know we've known each other for about a year now, but I feel like we don't really know one another very well. Let me start out by saying, my, what a lovely son you have. I mean, really. Good job there. I think he's pretty awesome, as you may have gathered by the fact that I let him impregnate me, but one can never stress the positive too much so, again, nice work. Thumbs up.

Also? I like your hair. The color of it, I mean. The cut wouldn't flatter me, being kind of short and severe like it is, but it works on you. It looks nice. I'm not just saying that because I'm afraid of you. But I am afraid of you.

I don't know what else to say, other than how 'bout them Bears and WOW, what unseasonably cool weather we've been having! Have the grasshoppers been bad out in your neck of the woods? Because in town, my goodness, they're just everywhere. You can't throw a piss without hitting a hundred of those big boys, and they're really causing a problem with crops, or so I hear. Not that I have crops, as you know, but I do hear things about people that have them, and man... What a sucky year. To have crops. I... Am I right? Heh. Uh...

Oh, well, I guess I should mention, before I forget... Not that it's any big deal or anything, or that it matters at all, and I know I've already told you a couple (dozen) times, but again, I feel I need to stress it so kind of bear with me: I'm not getting rid of my 20+ pound, elderly, long-haired cat because you're concerned he's going to literally suck the life out of my baby. I'm not going to let him 'try to eat the dried milk off the baby's face' so I don't know how he'd manage to get his massive ass on top of the kid in the first place, but I do thank you for your obvious and repetitive concern on this matter. I know it's out of love, and not your conviction that I'm too stupid to keep your grandchild alive. What? No, of course I do!

But ...Did I tell you that he's kind of crippled, my cat, and not so good at jumping? So, although I know I'll have to be aware of possible assassination attempts when I put my new-born on the floor and leave him unattended in a room by himself with the animal, I don't really think Mr. Big Stuff is going to be able to heave his gigantic ass into the crib and kill the baby that way. Just so you know. And I'll try to be as vigilant as I can when I pull both my infant and my kitty onto my lap, letting one nibble on the lips of the other, so that when the cat looks like he's starting to suck the air out of my son I can put a stop to that shit right there. We won't be having any baby lung sucking on my watch, ha ha ha.

I know your concern isn't limited to the fact that my cat is obviously from Hell and has evil in his murderous heart, but also that his long hair will give the baby DEADLY ALLERGIES, because your doctor 27 years ago told you that it was possible. You did mention that you selflessly got rid of your cat when The Boy was born and that he and his sisters have never had any allergies. You may have mentioned (repeatedly) that you loved that cat, but you loved your children MORE, and look how much good it's done for THEM, and I have to agree: You are obviously a saint.

Although, and not that I'm criticizing, I don't know how it's managed to escape your attention that your son actually DOES have allergies, or that his dog also has long hair. I only mention this because I notice that you aren't worried about her (the dog) shedding causing our child to become weak and frail and DIE, probably also from suffocation.

This brings me to another point. I'm worried about you, The Boy's Mom. Why does suffocation frighten you so? Were you asphyxiated as a child? Is there a hidden trauma you need to talk about? I'm here if you need an ear, and I'd be happy to listen to your woes.

Sort of along the same vein but not really at all, I just kind of wanted to mention that, well... you know the house your son and I are currently moving into? The one both of us are buying together, with our money, for our family and our (hopefully unsuffocated- cross your fingers!) child? Yeah. I really hate the upstairs bathroom. I hate that there is CARPET in it. I hate that the walls are SPONGE PAINTED and that there is a wallpaper border along the ceiling with random seashells in varying shades of PINK. That bathroom is not really 'me' at all. I know you love it and you think it's classy, and you can't imagine why I'd want to change it apart from the fact that I'm obviously blind or stupid and regardless, must not be good enough for your son. But I do want to change it, and that doesn't mean I've got bad taste or I'm dense, and even if I want to paint the walls in goat blood and drill a chute to China in the middle of the floor, I can do that because the bathroom is mine and not yours so it's really not up to you... Unless you're confused and think you're the one moving in with your son, in which case that brings up an entirely new set of concerns. A set of concerns which could lead to extended hospitalization. In theory. Not that I'm making a threat. No, of course I'm not!

Well, The Boy's Mom, I guess that's kind of it for now. I sure appreciate you taking the time to absorb what I have to say. I know the letter is long, but I figured perhaps written words could get my point across better than the words I speak, which you apparently cannot hear. We really need to find some way around this language barrier, TBM! I know we both speak English, but I fear my dialect must be very different from yours. (Maybe I was exposed to cats as an infant? No. Couldn't be. I don't seem to be dying of suffocation. Must be something else.)

Well, alrighty! I guess we'll talk (or write?) to you soon!
-The Girl

They're coming to take me away, ha-ha!

2009-07-21T10:38:00.000-07:00

(Hey, I'm not dead! I know, I'm surprised, too.)

Pregnancy makes you do weird things, and think that doing these weird things is alright. For instance, let me set a scene for you:

The other day, my oldest sister and I were at Toys R Us looking at baby things. You'd think we'd have gone to Babies R Us for this, but we live in one of the sparsely populated square states and so that was not possible. Whatever, it doesn't matter, don't judge us because we're primitive.

There we are, walking around all lah-dee-dah looking at this cheapo-cheap kiddo crap (Seriously, have you looked at all the plastic in that store? Mother of Mercy!) and suddenly I get an odd, crampy, strange feeling in my downstairs and come to a jerky halt. My sister looks over at my expression, which must clearly say, "What the fuck?" so she asks what's up and I don't think to lie, so I say, "I think there's a foot in my vagina," and she chokes and stares, aghast at her baby sister's droppage of crotch-speak in a place meant for buying of child-type things for children who may have their midget-sized ears within hearing range of words she doesn't deem fit for the kiddos. (Vagina? The other day I said "You've got to be fist fucking me!" while holding a four month-old. She would have been so scandalized. What? Don't look at me like that, it's not like the baby understood. I clean it up around kids. Or so I thought.)

I said this very out-loud, in a toy store, for what may be the first time in history those words have ever been uttered in that place. And she was in shock. I think she almost threw up.

Well, she shouldn't have asked.

I realize I'm only twenty-one (and a half!) weeks along, but man... I could have sworn that my little acrobat baby was standing on one foot right down inside my pelvis, and it wasn't very comfortable, so God forgive me for saying the V-word in the Toys R Us. I was overcome by the urge to share this strange happening, although I'm sure "outburst due to being overcome by feeling of foot in fanooter" won't stand up when the men in white coats are filling out their commitment papers and need something to put in the WHY section.

Look, okay, so I'm still not really showing very much. All of the pregnancy books and calenders and websites and articles say that I should be over run by strangers giving unsolicited belly pats every time I step out my front door, and that has yet to happen, probably for two reasons. One: I hate strangers and I think they can tell by my getthehellawayfrommeyoufuck glare I give them when they get too close to me, because strangers are notoriously perceptive, and two: The belly, she is not there very much. So. I mean, I can tell a difference, but it's not like KA BAM! here's an obviously pregnant girl! More like pfffffffft (that's my farty noise) here's a chick who looks kind of bloated and should probably lay off the salt.

This lack of belly scares me when I let it, and I think that in an effort to counteract the fear I have become really, "Oh my goodness, so there's a foot using my cervix as a trampoline right this instant, glory be!" about things. Because hell if I'm not going to marvel in this while it lasts -- be that 9 months or 9 minutes. I'm all in. You may want to buy a pair of shades to shield your eyes from the shining glory that is my child-like sense of wonder.

In other news: We close on the house in three days, and can start moving in that day. Which means I should probably finish packing but eh, packing is for losers and I'm nothing if not a WINNER who wins at winning, and who the hell am I kidding? I just don't want to stuff crap into boxes anymore. This is not a good time to decide I don't want to pack anymore, as my entire bedroom and kitchen still need to be rounded up, but... Feh. I'm kind of done with it and have decided that as opposed to doing any more actual packing, I think I'll just take arm loads of my junk to my car, drive to the new house, and unload said junk. We're only moving across town.

It'd be very green of me to save the boxes, don't you think?

Boys in tutus.

2009-07-10T08:32:00.001-07:00

(I'm blogging my ass off today. Been made to think about this topic by the wonderful mind tickler over at Pacing the Panic Room - http://pacingthepanicroom.blogspot.com/ -- which I recommend everyone read because he and his beautiful family are incredible.)

My nephew, when he was about three, loved to spin. He'd walk out into the middle of the room, throw his arms out and his head back, and just go. It was a fun thing to watch, this little person doing something pointless and silly because he liked the way it felt when the air rushed by his skin and his brain scrambled into a dizzy mess.

One day his dad was walking by and happened to glance into the living room where his son was whirling around. He laughed and said, "Boy, quit it. You look like a ballerina."

The boy stopped hard, planting both feet, and swayed for a moment while his eyes crossed and uncrossed wildly. He drew himself up, pointed his finger at the ceiling and hollered, "Maybe I WANNA BE A BALLERINA!"

My brother-in-law stopped short and stared at his boy, the light of his life, this tiny person that was such a strong little individual. He looked at me, then back at the boy. Finally, he said, "Well, okay. It's not like there's anything wrong with that. You go ahead and spin, buddy." and continued on his way. I loved him infinitely more in that moment than I ever had before, and that's saying a lot because my BIL is one of my favorite people alive. He hadn't meant what he's said about the ballerina as a bad thing, and it hurt him that it might have come off that way. He just wanted his boy to be happy, have fun, do what he liked to do.

Also, just FYI: The boy's favorite color was then and is still pink, and while he's 10 now and a little bit more shy about that he still will answer honestly when you ask, because we've always told him that colors don't belong to boys or girls, they're for everyone.

That's what I want. I want my kid to be a ballerina if he wants to. I want him to be into sports (*cringe*) if he wants to. I want him to stick his nose into a book and wander through a field with his head in the clouds if that's the person that he is. Whoever he is, I want him to know it's okay. The idea of anyone ever making him feel bad for being himself is a scary, infuriating thing. The boy, my nephew, is made to feel bad for liking pink. He's made to feel like he should hide it, like it's different and that different is bad, and that makes me want to hurt people in a way they are not able to recover from.

I just want my child to be healthy and happy. I just want him to be what and whomever he is. Why isn't that enough for people? Why do we as a society push things on our children and the children of others? Why do we feel the need to enforce these preassigned ideas about the way others should live and act? They're only children. Why should they ever be made to feel that being who they are is wrong?

See, I worry about this because we live in a rural state. A really rural state, full of football and rodeo and farming. (My sister and her brood live on the far end, where there is not so much of any of this at all. I do not.) I'm not from here and have never taken part in any of these things, nor could I ever imagine it. I'm not going to play an organized sport any more than I'm going to strap myself to the back of a livestock animal that doesn't want me there. That shit's crazy and while I'm crazy, I'm not THAT KIND of crazy.

However... I somehow managed to get my boots knocked off and then up by a man that comes from a ranching family. He was involved heavily in sports and rodeo and ranching for most of his formative years, and in fact did not stop any of those things until he was out of college. Not only did this man knock my boots (Quite thoroughly, might I mention. Yes indeed.) but managed to be a perfectly sweet, wonderful, incredible person whom I fell terribly in love with and have no intention of being away from any time soon.

The part of all of this that concerns me is that I'm pretty sure this kid's going to be showered in footballs and crap like that when he's born, and I don't like that. It skeeves me out, makes my shoulders bunch up, makes me uncomfortable to the point of complete aggravation because, shit, he's just a BABY. You don't know what he's going to like -- HE doesn't know what he's going to like. You know what new borns like? Tits and blankets and naps and crying. That's what they like. None of that has anything to do with anything except comfort and survival, and already they're being suffocated by "gender appropriate" toys and clothing and... Fuck, I'd just thought I'd buy some neutral onesies and call it good.

Come to find out that around these parts, it's got to have TRUCKS or BALLS or BEARS on it if it's for a boy. It's got to be BLUE and RED and as your child moves around in the clothing, it has to play a song who's lyrics consist of I'M A BOY, I AM A BOY BOY BOY, I HAVE A TINY PENIS IN MY PANTS to the tune of a marching band so that everyone's attention is drawn to the fact that holy crap, that child must be male. Thank Christ Jesus that he's got that big blue bear on his t-shirt, or we'd all have been at a terrible loss and society as we know it might have collapsed.

And that's just when they're tiny! When they're bigger, it's unheard of that a boy isn't involved in sports or Scouts, learning and doing Traditional Boy Things, what the fuck.

The only thing this makes me grateful for is that we're not (probably) having a girl. I couldn't stand the pink and the sparkles and the princess baby shit that people would flood our home with. I wouldn't be able to stomach it. Then as girls around here grow up, they learn that acting stupid gets you more attention from the boys (Does anyone else need a bag to throw up in?) and cheer leading will make you popular, and that being mean to other girls is okay because they obviously must deserve it for not looking like you and doing what you do. All of it is enough to make me climb a clock tower with a rifle, and I don't know if I could stand the constant battle against it.

At least with the boy I can just tell people to get their dirty damn balls out of my house and away from my baby. I think I'll be talking to people a lot about their balls.

(By the way: I'm startled to realize that this seems to be turning into a parenting blog. I did not expect that, but this pregnancy is really making me think of things in a different light, and think about things I didn't spend much time on before. Evolution, I guess?)

This is so weird.

2009-07-10T06:11:00.000-07:00

Being pregnant is kind of like you've been possessed by a tiny, mysterious little thing. Maybe not so much possessed like by an alien or a spirit or something, as you've been taken possession of.

But man, it's cool. It's so damn cool. There's a person inside my body right now, a real person, with organs and bones and a brain that's figuring things out.

Within the next little while here, that person's brain is going to develop to the point that he'll realize what's around him. He'll start becoming aware of sensations and knowledge of things. (This is smooth, that is soft... something is touching me, it is brighter now...) He'll try to understand what he's feeling, reaching out with tiny fingertips and limbs to explore this soft, warm place he's in. The fluid in his inner ear will develop, and so he'll gain a sense of when he's in one position over another, and what he likes or doesn't like.

Isn't that wild? One day, you're just floating around, blissed out and oblivious, and then practically the next you're AWARE. Suddenly, you realize you're not so fond of lying like this, but prefer that. You notice the difference between light and dark, and understand that there IS a difference, and that with one comes motion and the other, stillness. You start having ideas -- bright, colorful, beautiful ideas that no one in the world will ever have any understanding or knowledge of. You become separate, aware; an entirely new being that never was before it suddenly is.

It's made me start to think harder on something -- when does someone become a person, an individual? We are human and unique from conception, by a predestined organization of genes and molecules and so on. But when do we become ourselves?

This is a long running question, brought up mostly by the pro-choice and pro-life camps. That is not what I'm doing here, but instead I pose the question, if it's possible to do so, separately from that argument. When it comes down to your basic understanding and belief, when do we become PEOPLE? Is it when we are conceived, or when brain function develops to the point of awareness, or when we are physically independent of our mothers? There are so many different points of view on this subject.

What's yours? Please do share. I'm just musing, just curious.

He can't be serious.

2009-07-09T11:24:00.000-07:00

(Edited to add: It should probably be mentioned - and I didn't mention, because I'm a jackass - that my father and I don't really speak. We never really have. We don't do much in the way of family at all, he and I. I love him because I was raised with him as my father, but as a person he is very, very hard to tollerate and always has been. This is his personality, and has nothing to do with anything other than him being who he is. He's never had much to do with my life, not since I was very young. There are a lot of underlying issues here, but that's the biggest one: We're practical strangers. Which might be where the anger here comes from.)

I called my dad the day of our appointment to tell him he's going to have a grandson, that we're doing great, and that we seem to (somehow) be staying out of the woods so far when it comes to health. This was my first mistake, and I have since come to wish a house had fallen out of the sky and crushed me before I could dial his number, because to this news he said, "Oh, that's good. I'll be there on Saturday."

He didn't ask, he didn't warn, and there was no room in the tone of his voice for doubt. This is how he controls situations: He storms into them with his mind made up, and damn the consequences for anyone else.

Hooray for me and fuck everyone else.

This is how he goes through life. He didn't even start announcing himself until I went on a screaming jag two years ago about the very good chances that someday, he's going to drive 7 hours from his door to mine only to find I'm out of town, and THEN won't he feel like a dick.

He doesn't care what his arrival will do to the lives he's crash landing into. He expects room to be made with no notice, and he always has. If for some reason room cannot be made, he throws an epic fit. I'm talking EPIC--complete with stomping, yelling, outlandish accusations concerning alienation of affection and a lifetime of disrespect, guilt, etc. Also, and I feel like I really do have to stress this next fact:

My father is dying. He's had congestive heart failure for YEARS, has had two bypass surgeries, has a defibrillator AND a pacemaker implanted in his chest (two different things - one keeps the rhythm, the other shocks the wrath of Satan into your heart meat when the rhythm cannot be kept) is on a list of medications as long as I am tall, calls the Cardiac Clinic to report his weight and BP/other stats every morning, needs mechanical assistance to breathe at night, and goes in to the clinic for a check up 2-3 times a week. He has 30 percent of ONE SIDE of his heart left functioning at a normal level, the rest is either dead or in afibrillation -- beating so fast that it does absolutely no good to his body or his blood.

He. Is. Dying. He is also the one drinking Pepsi out of a keg in the corner. Yes, that is a gravy stain on his shirt and no, he doesn't know what stain you're talking about or how it got there because he would never do anything stupid like eat biscuits and gravy at the Cracker Barrel and house more food than is necessary to feed all of Asia every chance he gets. You must be hallucinating. It must have been fairies. Gravy fairies. And the doctors said that the Pepsi is good for his blood sugar, which is totally normal even though he hasn't used a test strip since God created sky. He obviously feels the pathological need to lie about the state of his health and how RECKLESSLY he is regarding it. He is constantly, every second of every day, seconds away from death. This, of course, as you can imagine, is incredibly hard to be around and bear witness to. It ALSO means that he cannot be more than 20 minutes away from a major cardiac ward, lest his body give out on him. (Which it does. A lot. And will again. Frequently. Until it can't recover anymore.) Which means he should not ever, ever drive 7 hours to anywhere, especially not to me, when I live in one of the most desolate states in the Union and there is literally no way he would survive if something happened to him on his way here.

On top of his terrible health and habit of lying about it, my father is incredibly demanding. He demands constant attention, constant submission. THIS is not due to his illness, THIS is due to him being a FUCKING SPOILED TYRANT. Get me this, bring me that, go here for me, do this for me, LISTEN TO ME, don't speak, don't make noise, why is your dog looking at me, get your cat away from me, it's too hot in here, get me that, I need this, you're doing it wrong, you're doing it wrong, YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG, I know more, I know best, do this for me, I need that, give me that right now, let me tell you a story about how wonderful I am, I'm thirsty, my medication is making my balls swell. Oh, hello, The Boy's family members! FRESH MEAT! Come listen to me, right now, do this, do that, NOW! NOW! NOW!

Because of ALL OF this, it is not possible to make room in one's life for him without notice, as he is a walking fucking time bomb and his heart is literally always on the verge of EXPLODING. Not to mention his kidneys are failing, as is his liver, and don't even get me started on the rest of his organs. Certain allowances have to be made, certain tasks and activities become absolutely impossible.

Whatever. I didn't much feel in the mood to argue with him or point any of this out just then, since I'd just gotten out of my appointment and was flying so high, I could not see the ground. I told him I'd check my work schedule and try to get someone to cover for me so I could spend more time with him when he got here, and that I'd call him back later.

Big mistake. Huge.

I don't know if that recess gave him time to cook up his little plan or what, but man... I could strangle someone. I feel like a tool about it, but I really could just kill right now.

When I called my father back, he told me that my sister had told him that The Boy and I are moving into a new house, and she suggested that he stay with us instead of saving his money and staying in a hotel. (BECAUSE SHE OBVIOUSLY FUCKING HATES ME, THAT'S WHY!) So his plan now is that instead of my sister driving down to get him after the baby is born, he's going to drive here alone WEEKS BEFORE the birth and, this is the best part so I'll quote him directly, "I can stay as long as I want. Not forever, but for a long, long time."

Now, you might be thinking, "He can't seriously be suggesting that a near-seventy year-old man who's hardly managing to stay out of the ground should drive an ancient, rust bucket hoopty 7.5 hours IN NOVEMBER BLIZZARDS, alone, and then squat his geriatric, critically ill and incredibly needy, belligerent ass in the home of his youngest daughter and her love, who will have a newborn to adapt to and care for and try to keep alive."

No. He can't be serious, but he is.

So now on Saturday when he shows up out of nowhere (If he shows up, actually. He could very possibly arrest on the way up and be detained in some po-dunk ER somewhere in the middle of God's country,) I have to look at him and tell him that he cannot do this, he can't because I CANNOT HANDLE IT, and he is going to freak his shit. He will absolutely, completely lose his ever-loving mind. And I won't be able to relent because DAMNIT, this is MY life and MY baby and I know how much I can handle, and having him hovering over our newborn while wheezing, coughing, unable to move, demanding every second of every person's attention, is going to be too fucking much.

My unwillingness to cave to him will infuriate him. Everyone has alwas given in to him. I always have, because I love him and want him to be happy. Growing up, there was no defiance. There was never a time we told him "no." It was not allowed because he does not accept that answer from anyone, especially not his children, who will never know better than he does. His anger will spark mine, and I will very likely end up telling him to get his old, sick ass back from whence he came and DON'T COME BACK HERE AGAIN until he can act his age... I love him so much, but motherFUCK this. I will choose my child over him. And I will not be made to feel bad about it.

Am I wrong? What would you do?

La Vida.

2009-07-07T12:42:00.000-07:00

I'm kind of zonked, but I have news so I wanted to put that here, for anyone that might care. I just hope it all makes sense -- I'll try again tomorrow to clarify my thoughts, but here's the gist of what's going on:

-We had an appointment yesterday for the baby, just routine scheduled stuff. I think I'd worked myself into such a state that I honestly half expected to see a blank screen on the ultrasound, and hear the doctor say, "Oh, sorry. It's just gas." and send us away, confused and pissed off and all, well if you'd just let me fart in bed we wouldn't have that changing table we don't need, now WOULD we? (Note: We totally don't have a changing table. We're making the big move in two weeks and neither of us have started packing our separate houses. Obviously, planners we are not.)

I digress. Point is: We saw a beautiful, perfect, bright white skeleton inside of our baby. We saw fluid in the abdomen and skull to cushion organs and brain. We saw a beating heart, wiggling limbs, and perhaps even a wee bit of thumb sucking. We also saw a penis, or so we think, and so The Bean is no longer The Bean but has a name all his own. (His. Dear God. Him. Our son. A boy. Holy cow.)

I was shocked because I was sure we were having a girl -- so much for women's intuition, huh? And okay, WAS isn't correct - AM is correct. I AM shocked the doctor said it's a boy, and while I love him and would totally make out with his sweet old face because he talks to me about his lunch when he's elbow deep in my vagina like there's nothing awkward at all about the situation, I wonder if he hasn't developed something of a secret drinking problem as of late because this? Does not feel like a boy. I don't know that I'd have any idea what a boy would feel like, but I thought you're supposed to get some sort of Divine signal beamed into your brain. Maybe my receptors are down, but I'm pretty sure he's just a closet drunk and that penis is going to turn out to be a foot.

Anyway... Everything is good. I can't explain the weight off of my mind upon seeing our baby move around in there, rabbit kicking and making problems for the doctor when he tried to get pictures of his face and downstairs mixup. I can't even put to words what a terrible shit I've been lately, how many times I've fired off a YOU'RE PISSING ME OFF! or STOP BEING SUCH A SHITHEAD! and caught a pained, frustrated expression flit across The Boy's face because we don't talk to each other like that... We aren't those people, and while it's so natural for him to not be that person, it's work for me, and I'm ashamed that I've been so lax lately because I've been so scared and anxious and distracted. There is no excuse, and I feel terrible that I never even noticed it was happening.

I've laughed more in the last 30 hours than I have in weeks. The baby's alive and well and fine, despite all of my constant worrying and panic attacking. The Boy is over the moon-- I think he was shocked to see our child wiggling around, being a real (tiny) person inside. I know he's been worried, although he's never said, and I imagine it's an enormous weight off of his mind, as well. I've noticed he's laughing more easily and smiling a lot more than he has been recently, and it breaks my heart a thousand times with love for him. The palpable relief and joy and excitement is something I'm so glad to be able to finally share with him. And now I've shared it with you, and I'm rambling, so I'll end it here.

Thank you for caring, for your kind words and thoughts. Thank you so much for being right.

I can't seem to figure it out.

2009-06-30T21:28:00.000-07:00

That last post is still giving me heartburn. I'm still rolling it around, still trying to find the peg in my brain it will fit into so it will just sit still already, damnit, but I need to get it off the top of my blog. I can't come here to make sure the figurative roof hasn't caved in between posts, and see it there. Looking at me. Looking at anyone else who comes here.

Problem is, on account of still not having found a way to quiet the voice of that last one, I don't really know what else to talk about, so... This is awkward. I kind of feel like I should address some of the things I said in that last one but at the same time, no. Just... no. I don't really know how to talk about any of it, and I don't want to give the wrong impression... So there's this grunting murmur in the back of my head, growling at me to just leave it alone already, it's tired and old and can't you see I'm resting now go AWAY. Yet I still feel the need to poke, and so let me just clarify, just quickly, just for a second:

I don't want to forget the baby I lost. I don't want to, and I know I won't ever. Sometimes I just wish I could. I know that makes me a bad person or a shitty woman, or any number of terrible things I'd never chose to be, but I didn't choose any of this so I've kind of grown used to the idea of things not fitting just so in my life. I suppose I can deal with people thinking I'm terrible for occasionally wishing I had the ability to forget, because forgetting is the only thing that would make it possible for me to be normal.

People who have normal have everything I want, but they don't have a clue how lucky they are and so I guess I don't want any of it at all. I'd rather know I'm lucky than be trapped in the dark, however soothing...

And that's all, I promise, that I have to say about that. For now, anyway... I mean, I can't say for sure about the future and whether or not I'll feel the need to vomit this particular demon back up in a while. But not now, not anymore, I promise.

Let's move on, shall we? I don't know what to move toward, however, so this will serve as a place holder for a couple of days until I figure it out... I'm really trying to figure it out. I am. If anyone has any ideas on what I could blather about here, I'm totally open to suggestions. In fact, that would be kind of great.

I'll see you on the flip side.

I'm so sorry.

2009-06-28T16:34:00.001-07:00

Man, I fucking hate this sometimes.

I mean, generally I love this. This being pregnant and the miracle of life and everything associated with it. But damn it, sometimes I hate it, and I can't SAY so because saying so will kill my baby. Seriously. That's what I feel like. I feel like if for one second I'm not the picture of gratitude and motherly humility that the baby will die because I don't deserve her.

That's part of what I hate... I hate feeling like I'm walking on egg shells, like everything I do or don't do, everything I THINK is going to have some sort of superstitious repercussion and something bad is going to happen. Because I wasn't grateful enough, I didn't want it enough.

And ya know, on the subject of wanting it enough, let me tell you: After losing a baby at 14-15 weeks and then passing a perfect half of her incredibly tiny SKULL -and everything inside it, dear God- into the toilet 3 days later because the doctors did a fucking D&C (Dilate cervix, knock out mother, go in vaginally and literally hack the baby to pieces, then suck it out. Seriously. That's what they did. At 15 fucking weeks. Living in a small town and having only a rural Catholic hospital with out-dated surgical procedures can suck.) and didn't GET EVERYTHING, I don't know that there's anyone in the world that WANTS IT MORE. Because really... Do you want to picture that for a second? Seeing something like that in the toilet? Because I don't and I CAN'T STOP, so excuse me if there's a little bit of post traumatic stress going on here and every time I go to the bathroom I'm waiting for the blood. Every single time.

Which is, like I was saying, part of the reason I HATE this sometimes. I can't just be happy, there has to be this underlying sense of fear and danger and oh no what if... I can't STAND IT. I can't STAND that this tragedy, this enormous fucking thing that crashed down on my life 4 years ago robbed me of the ability to just be grateful, and instead I'm left with this constant nagging terror.

I hate that I feel like I'm over reacting to everything. I hate that when I can't feel the baby move and kick like people say I should be able to, I assume she's dead. I hate that when I think I CAN feel something I second guess it, so it seems like I never feel her move at all. I hate that I don't feel like I'm showing as much as I'm supposed to, that every week I google pictures of women as far along as I am and compare, becoming terrified until I can find a stomach that looks like mine and feel more normal.

I hate that people don't ask about how it's going or what's happening with the pregnancy, when I really do want to tell them but I don't want to intrude. I hate that they don't ask because this has all gone so badly before, and they don't want to get too invested, just in case, because they know what it did to me last time and they're afraid if they encourage me it'll be all the worse when it all goes so terribly wrong... I hate that The Boy is one of those people -- that he has concerns and worries and things he can't talk to me about because he doesn't want to crank my nervousness up any more than it is. I hate that because he doesn't ask, it feels like he doesn't care, and that makes me even more nervous. I hate that I don't have anyone to talk to...

Sometimes, I just hate it. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I hate it, I'm so sorry that I FEEL this way... Most of the time, 98 per cent of the time, I love it so much that I ache with it... It's just that other tiny 2 per cent, that tiny little bit of time that the fear and the paranoia and the uncertainty overwhelm and I feel like I'm left standing in the middle of the field where my LIFE used to be, with everything blown to hell. Worse, I feel like I'm the one destroying it because I can't just be like everyone else, I can't just be happy, I can't just suck it up and do what other people do and what the hell is wrong with me?

Why can't I move on, why can't I just forget about that other baby, the one that died? Why do I have to spend so much of every day talking to myself out loud, just so I can hear a human voice say, "It's going to be okay. You don't need to worry. It's all going to be okay this time." I feel so pathetic sometimes, and I just fucking hate it... like right now, I just hate this. I hate feeling like this, and I'm so sorry because I really do want this baby more than anything, and I am so grateful, I swear I am...

...They shoot cuz they wanna.*

2009-06-27T12:57:00.000-07:00

Things that have happened within the last 72 hours:

WE GOT THE HOUSE. The roofers came back with an estimate that was half what we expected it to be, as the damage was not as bad as we originally feared, and the home owners decided to pay for the repairs. (As opposed to fighting us on it, refusing our offer, and attempting to screw less savy home buyers.) Our move-in date is the 24th of next month. Um. Does anyone want to help me pack? Otherwise, I might just count it as a loss and burn all of my crap in the alley out back, because that sounds very celebratory and festive for the 4th. Independance from my stinky, over-priced apartment, huzzah!
My dog sucked $130 dollars out of my wallet. Actually, more accurately, her bottom parts turned into a pale brown fire hose of terror and distruction, prompting me to take her to the vet and pay them $130 to tell me she has Irritable Bowel Syndrome. She went over night from being healthy and happy to needing special food and gut-bacteria powder sprinked on said special food to stay alive. Which I'm going for because, gah, I love her. If she suffers or the medication doesn't take, however, we'll be writing a different story.
I ordered a bunch of maternity stuff online, then promptly forgot about it because ME + SHOPPING = FAIL. I don't like to do it, and I don't care about it, so I space it out as soon as it's done. Today, I found a package outside my door full of what I'd ordered, one item being a green and white baby blanket. And lo, it is soft and was like a surprise present because I'd forgotten all about it. Sometimes I love being absent minded.
I locked myself out of my apartment this morning, leaving my car/house keys on the couch. My spare house key was in my (locked) car, and my spare car key was in my (locked) house. Is there anything else in the world that can make a person feel so incredibly stupid? If so, I haven't found it. I HATE being absent minded.
I got a phone call from a girl I was friends with at the beginning of High School. (I may be young, but trust: That was many, many, many moons ago.) By graduation we had grown apart (...because she fucked my best friend and then complained to me that he was awkward and ignored her afterward, which... Uh... Sorry, maybe don't fuck ambivilant stoners because you're trying to test how attractive the 'No really, I'm bisexual, don't you think that's hot, doesn't it make you like me?' line actually is? My less than sympathetic reaction disappointed her, which made me care less, which further inflamed the situation,) and I've only spoken to her while drunk on whiskey maybe 8 times since then. Anyway, she called and I didn't answer because, as you might have gathered, we have very little to talk about. She left no voicemail, but instead sent me a text message berating me for not answering the phone, when if I didn't want to talk to her the least I could do was tell her to fuck off.
I told her to fuck off. I told her that the least I could do if I didn't want to talk to her was NOT TALK TO HER, and that one of us needed to chill right the hell out, put the phone down, take a deep breath, and realize that high school was a LONG time ago so we should all have our big girl panties on by this point. It was satisfying in the way the defiant, pubescent slam of a door can be. I have no patience for passive aggressive strangeness, and who calls someone that's basically a complete stranger and then gets indignant when they don't answer? People that deserve to be told to fuck off, that's who. I do feel a little bad about it now, though, which I kind of hate.
I'm about 99% sure this baby is a girl. So much so that if at our next appointment it's found that there is a penis somewhere in my abdomen, I just may faint from the shock. To avoid any injury from my passing out during a very Southern and lady like case of the vapors, I think I might wear one of those inflatable floaty duck rings that you see in cartoons when characters go to the beach, so as to be cushioned from all sides when I hit the deck. They make those things, right? Because if not, I'm boned.
Told my land lord about Creepy McGangster and his Roving Pack of Pervert Homies next door, and he said he'd get on that shit like a fat kid on a cupcake. He said they've been told once to congregate somewhere else, and he'd make sure I wasn't bothered by them anymore, which is awesome except that now I feel like a jerk for moving out. He's never been a particularly kind man up until now, and he doesn't know I'm moving yet. I might want to mention that um.. tomorrow... or soon-ish. Maybe Monday? Definitely. Definitely Monday. ("82, 82, 82 toothpicks. 246 total, 4 left in the box." I hear that in my head every time I hear/say/see the word 'definitely.' Anyone else? No? Just me then? Eh.)

(*A line from the song Bullets, I think. Get it. Because there I used bull-oh never mind.)

I try.

2009-06-20T16:09:00.000-07:00

I try to remember her face, how impossibly soft and cool the skin of her cheek always was… Her eyes. Did they look like mine? What color were they? Her hair, short and curly and wild, springing off in every direction with absolutely no direction. I try to remember the way she felt, the way she made me feel.

I try but can’t recall her voice anymore, not really. When I listen hard enough there is an echo from deep, deep down inside of me that is not the sound but the feeling of her words. I can’t remember. For the longest time I could summon the sound of her saying certain things; “Be careful,” “Dream of angels,” “Love you, baby.” Now all that’s left is an ache. No sound anymore- instead her voice is replaced with an imitation sounded out in my own, a murmur that rolls around inside my brain trying to convince me that it’s really her. It’s never really her.

I try not to picture her when sick and drawn, her always-flushed skin turned the palest shade of pain. I think I’ve mostly blocked that out, mostly managed to force myself into forgetting those months where she just became smaller, smaller, smaller until we could count the ribs jutting from the skin beneath her shirt with only a glance from across the room… Mostly, but not entirely, I’ve forgotten how her voice went from a strong, deep, resonating thing to a soft, fragile ghost of her words. The terror of these details hangs on somewhere inside, waiting for an unguarded moment to slide back into the rotation of reasons for tears in the night. But mostly, I’ve tried to forget…

I try, instead, to remember her standing in the kitchen with one dwarf-like foot on top of the other, a hip braced against the counter, arms uncrossing occasionally to gesture grandly as she spoke. I try to see her from the passenger seat of her truck, her face always framed by the fields blurring past in the window on her other side. I try to remember the smells of stale coffee, menthol cigarettes, lilacs, orange slice candies. I try to remember the way she’d insist on hugs- big, full bodied hugs, and how when her arms were around us she would dance, sometimes singing a song about a big, blue frog. I try to remember…

I try not to think about the fact that this baby won’t know her. I try not to remember the baby I was pregnant with while we were losing her, the one that bled away after she died. I try not to think about the milestones, holidays, occasions, every-days that we will never have with her. I try not to miss her so much that it fills me, branching out like breaking glass from the farthest, deepest parts of myself.

I try to do what other people do. Move on, shoulder through, mold myself into a walking, talking, coping cliché.

I try so hard, and it only gets harder. When we lost her people drifted closer, farther, stroking arms and backs and hair and whispering the things they thought we needed to hear… It will get easier, the pain will fade, you’ll move on. They made themselves into liars without realizing what they were doing, only trying to sooth their own loss and our own and losing the credibility entitled by love in the process.

Still, I try. WE try. We go forward because we must, learning to move through the world in a different way, a way that is less full than it seemed Before. We make new lives, new memories, hold on to new hopes, only now our grip has been made weaker by the knowledge that hope cannot always carry us through. Hope, sometimes, is cruel. Luckily, however, life is beautiful and occasionally kind, and there are always new chances. And so we try. We breathe. We live.

I'm No Miracle Worker.

2009-06-19T19:13:00.001-07:00

Today is the 4-year anniversary of my mother's death. It doesn't seem possible, and cannot put it to words, and it has my heart breaking inside my chest. So instead, I will share a story that had me crying tears of laughter. Because sometimes, you just have to laugh at yourself. Especially if yourself is me, and I'm a giant tool.

The other day The Boy and I were at the grocery store, and he picked up this basket. He was looking at it like he didn't know what it was- like he'd never seen a basket before.

I, being overwhelmingly clever, grabbed his hand and wiped it down the side of the basket really hard while saying, "BA-SKET. BASKET. BA-SKET!" Then I pretended to sign B-A-S-K-E-T into his hand, while saying "BAAAH-SKET."

...And he had NO. FUCKING. CLUE what I was doing. I could have died. DIED. If you've never seen Miracle Worker, it looked like I was having a goddamned stroke. Apparently, The Boy is the one person on the face of the earth that hasn't seen that movie or read anything, ever, about Hellen Keller, because he was watching me with this sort of cautious, really amused, but also super cautious smirk. So I said, "You know, like Hellen Keller?" and he goes, "Who?" and I was like, "FUCK."Because I just humiliated myself in public again.

Then I told him this really lame Cliff Notes version of the movie that basically went like, "You know the movie from way-back with the lady in sunglasses, at least I think she was in sunglasses, that came, and then the girl was deaf and mute or wait, wasn't she blind? Yeah, maybe she was blind and deaf, but I don't think she could speak, either, so I don't know what that was about. But they were at the pump at the end and the teacher lady put Hellen Keller's hand in the water and she was like WAAA! WAAAAAH! WAAAH-TERRR! And suddenly, tada! She understood language?"

Turns out, that wasn't a helpful explination. Nor did it make me look LESS like I was going full-on retard in the grocery store. I know this because we had drawn a crowd, probably due to all of my waaaah-ing... So.

I think the moral of this story is that I have no clue how to explain movies and should never try to be clever again. Ever.

...Miss you, Mama. So much.

Stories of Somethings, pt1

2009-06-19T13:18:00.000-07:00

A few of my favorite bloggers have been writing about their haunted house experiences lately. I'm kind of late catching the boat, but I thought I'd throw my hat in the ring anyway. There are a lot of stories and I don't know yet how many I'm going to be telling, but I figured I'd split them up for ease of reading anyhow. As if anything I write is easy to read.

The women in my family seem to be sensitive to things. I've heard stories about my great grandmother (who is rumored to have killed her husband, my great grand father, and gotten rid of his body in the furnace...) being incredibly spooky and strange about things no one could see. She was a strange woman, one I cannot talk about without feeling like her eyes are boring into the back of my head. I feel like one of the hobbits when that big flaming eye would turn and stare at them; like where ever she is, she can hear me and she's not happy about it. This feeling is shared by whomever might hear me talking about her - I've been asked to stop mid-conversation by many friends, asked to change the subject immediately, as everyone felt strangely about it. I never met the woman, and can't say I'm unhappy about it.

My grand mother, her daughter, would often have long one-sided conversations with her mother for decades after she died. She would sit in a darkened room, in the antique rocking chair her mother had left to her, and talk for hours. Only... there were pauses in there, as if she were hearing a response. Her inflection and the rhythm of her speech gave one the impression there was someone else speaking, someone no one could hear.

My mother believed she heard the voice of God when she was very young (although, given her strict Catholic upbringing and totally seperate later dealings with paranoid schizophrenia, we may decide for ourselves as to why, if we feel the need to have an answer) and had conversations with her dead father for 30 years until she, herself, died. She was absolutely terrified of tarot cards, Ouija boards, etc, insisting that "they open a door, they let things in, things you can't ever shut out again." She was raised devout Catholic, went to Catholic school every day of her education career, and believed in nothing so much as the wrath of God. This all directly conflicted with the fact that occasionally, she knew things she couldn't have known and could never say how she knew them. She just knew.

My sister and I have seen and heard things that we cannot explain, and this has gone on as far back as either of us can remember. When we are together it seems to happen more often and with greater intensity. When my mother was alive and we all lived under the same roof, there were times that things in that house desinigrated into an absolute shit storm of unexplainable activity.

...My first memory of dealing with Something (as I don't know what else to call it) was when I was approximately 6 years old. I was riding in the car with my sister and my mother, and was chattering about a dream I'd had the night before.

During this period in my life, my sister and I lived with our father in an apartment that was terrifying to us then and remains so to us now. In that apartment every dream I had was horrific, with the exception of this one, which is why I was so excited to tell my mom about it. I thought I was a big girl, moving past what she called 'silly nightmares.'

I told my mother I'd had a dream that I was a grown up, and I was standing behind a woman in an old rocking chair, brushing her hair. The woman had very dark skin that was very wrinkled, and I only knew that because I could see our reflection in a mirror that was in front of us. The mirror was on top of a dresser, and on the dresser was a silver hand mirror that matched the silver brush I was using on her hair. The woman smiled at me like she knew me. Neither of us spoke a word, and there was no sound to the dream at all.

My mother almost swerved off the road. She pulled into a grocery store parking lot, turned in her seat and started firing questions. What did the room look like? There were white walls, a wooden floor, big windows. Was there anything else there? Yes. There was a tall stick leaning against the corner; it was two colors, getting darker half way down. How long was her hair, was it straight or curly? To her waist at least, and it was straight as a pin. What was she wearing? All black- long, black sleeves, and a black skirt that covered her feet.

Here, my mother started crying. She mumbled "What does she want?" and pulled back onto the road. When we got to her apartment, she immediately called her sister and told her about the dream.

Later that night, she told me about my great grandmother. I had described the woman perfectly, described her possessions (which I had never seen, as they were locked away somewhere- except the chair that my grandmother would have her own strange experiences in, which I had also not seen) to a T. Even the stick she used to stir laundry and chase and beat the children with was in my dream. My mom apologized for crying earlier, but said my great grandmother was a vile, angry, mean woman, and that she had always scared the living hell out of my aunts and uncles. My mother called her a witch, said she knew things she shouldn't have known.

Then she dropped the subject abruptly and never brought it up again. I've never forgotten it, and can still see every detail of the dream when I think back on it. It frightened my mother very badly, and she seemed to believe that my great grandmother was reaching out from wherever she'd landed herself after death and waving a big, fat "Hello!"

This was the only experience with Something that involved a dream and someone I didn't know. I don't know if it qualifies as a ghost story, but it is a STRANGE story to me and my family none the less.

But WHINE!

2009-06-16T16:16:00.001-07:00

So, the house we're in the process of closing on... We had the inspection yesterday, and would you believe it took five (5!) hours to inspect our sweet little home-to-be? No, me either. I wouldn't believe that an inspection that was supposed to take 2 hours instead took that long.

You know what else I wouldn't believe? That the entire roof is shot. Oh, yes. SHOT-shot. Like, if you were to walk on it, you'd fall through and cripple yourself, thus leaving your family to limp along on one income while you spent the rest of your life eating through a straw and rolling the dice when it came to bed sores and diaper rash. That kind of shot. Or the kind of shot where it could collapse in and crush you all in your sleep one night because the wind picked up just a titch. We're talking TOTALLY SHOT.

Riddle me this: How in the hell can someone, in good conscience, put a house up for sale that is topped by a roof that is about to collapse?

And man, let me tell you, it doesn't LOOK about to collapse. It's beautiful, especially when seen through the dewy eyes of someone that really, really would like to live beneath it. It's a pretty, normal little roof on top of the pretty, normal little house that we've already gone and picked out paint colors and furniture and even outside plants for. Because we're stupid and like to tempt fate, that's why. We started acting like the deal was final before it was, and now I want to shake my finger in the owner's face and tell them things like HOW DARE YOU and SHAME ON YOU and DON'T YOU KNOW WE'RE NICE PEOPLE? And also maybe add in a SHIT and PISS for good measure, because fuuuuuck. (Is it possible to whine through the Internets? I'm really giving it my best here.)

Dude. We're nice people. We do nice things. We're involved in charity and we love our big, messed up families so much, and we're just trying to carve out a little corner of the world for ourselves and our baby, and these LIARS are trying to sell a house with a bunk roof. A house we love. A house we can see our child learning to walk in. A house we want to build a life in and CAN'T now because do you know how much a new roof costs?

Between 7 and 25 THOUSAND dollars, depending on things like size, material and mold issues. (By the way? We have mold issues. Of course we do. Son of a bitch.) That's 7-25K that the bank won't include in the loan now because why do they want to give us more money to move into a house that's not a wise investment in its current state? (Keep in mind, the roof is THE ONLY problem. A huge problem, yes, but the ONLY problem in this PERFECT house that is EVERYTHING we want.)

So there are two possible outcomes here: Either the home owners will cut the cost of the new roof off of the agreed selling price (haha... right..) OR they will back out of the deal and try their luck at selling our... errr... their house to people that might not want to foot the cost of a very expensive home inspection and so might not find out that the roof is about to collapse and kill them in their sleep.

Piss and m-f'ing moan, you guys. This is really trying my patience. These people are not the nicest (WE ARE! WE ARE THE NICEST! THEY ARE THE ASSHOLEST!) and that's fine, you don't have to be nice, but wow. Can't you at least be honest and decent and maybe not try to sell us a house with a roof that could crash down and kill our unborn child? Or at least be up front about it and say, "Hey, just to let you know, here's the deal, because we don't want you to get surprised by a 25K ass reaming in a few months when oops, the shingles fly away and you have a really, really, really big sky light instead of a silly roof, ha ha! Also: fit your infant for a helmet because they're stylish AND practical in case of collapse!"

In the face of this newest house-related development, and contrary to what my whining would lead you to believe, I am choosing to think that the home owners will do the right thing and either fix the roof or cut the cost of the repair/replacement off of our costs. That's what nice people would do, it's what honest people would do. It's what people who care how happy complete strangers are would do. I really hope it's what they do. I'm trying to be very zen about this, and not imagine myself shoving pieces of bamboo under their fingernails until they agree to do things my way while I ask if they remember how I was nice before they fucked me out of my house? Haha! THOSE WERE GOOD TIMES, HUH, MEANIES?

...or something. Anyway. Keeping the ol' fingers crossed, and staying positive and calm because The Bean doesn't like the stress that I'm already so prone to. And really, stressing won't do anything for this situation, so bah. Does anyone know how to knit? Or maybe another soothing activity that doesn't include huge needles that I could use to exact my bloody revenge?

What do I do?

2009-06-15T16:49:00.000-07:00

I have new neighbors. Maybe they aren't new, maybe our harsh winter months just kept them inside and hidden and away from me and my small, tight little world. Now that it's warm and the sun is shining, however, they gather on the stoop next door like a bunch of half-starved lions, turned away by any pride and left to straggle aimlessly. They lounge and recline, perching on vehicles and steps and lying in the too-long grass in various states of undress and exibition. They're all male, and they're all covered in badly-done tattoos that I, because of my work and personal affinity for body art, recognize not as expressions of self but as declarations of loyalty to a larger group. A more dangerous group. A group that most probably encourages the doing of some bad shit.

They are not shirtless because of the heat, at least not entirely so. They want those brands to be seen. They are preening. They are proud of themselves and each other, thinking they are important and worthy of attention and respect.

I fucking loath them.

I don't know their names or their ages, nor do I care to, but can only presume by their actions and lack of apparent motivation that they are not past their early twenties. I don't know anything about them but what I assume from their tattoos, their bandanas, their sagged pants and attitudes. What I know is also that I can no longer walk from my car to my front door without their eyes following me, their voices growling at me. Whether predawn or the darkest of night, they are there. They watch me when I move, talk to each other about me, say things to me that they should not say. I know that the affect they are having is intentional. They know I know, and they don't care.

They make me uncomfortable -- my woman's intuition SCREAMS when they approach me, and I immediately go from calm and waiting for my dog to do her business to angry and wanting nothing more than to let her off the leash she's straining against, as she's barking and growling and snarling in a show that is so uncharacteristic that I do not recognize it in my sweet natured pup. I do not let her loose, however, because I can see that they would hurt her more than she could hurt them. They would not hesitate to lash out at her, prove to each other that they are not afraid of some stupid dog, and I will not allow her to become their tool of badass expression.

They make me angry because I've never been concerned about living alone but I am now. It won't be an issue much longer -- The Boy and I are closing on a house as we speak, fingers crossed, and by this time next month I should be out of the apartment I've always loved but now despise and do not feel safe enough in -- but it is an issue NOW. I don't like feeling vulnerable, noticing how easy it would be to get into my apartment, or hide outside of it and wait quietly.

They make me angry because they are presumptuous. Every time they have approached me, I've been on the phone and had my dog on her leash outside, waiting for her to relieve herself. I am obviously occupied. They don't care, it does not phase them that they are intruding. They LIKE it, and their enjoyment drips out of their cocky grins, their leering eyes. I want to nutpunch them so hard, their grandsons will be impotent.

They make me angry because they persist. I have ignored them and yet they just keep it up.

Last night, I was on the phone with The Boy and waiting for the pup to do her thing in the grass, when the biggest of them (the one that does most of the talking) popped out from around the corner of his apartment. He said, "You want to see a cool trick?" and started toward me. My dog LOST. HER. DAMN. MIND. She started barking and lunging, snarling and growling at him, and he didn't stop coming. He didn't visibly register that she was there. I told him, "No, I don't want to see your trick and you should probably stay the fuck over there because she bites." Which... no, she doesn't. At least she never has. But she's also never put on this Big Tough Hound act, either, so who can say? Even my words and her obvious aggression did not stop him- he persisted, coming closer, and I said, "Seriously. She'll rip the shit out of you." He kind of laughed, and I went back to my phone conversation, which suddenly consisted of the boy saying, "Who is that? What the fuck does he want? What's going on? What's happening? Why is the dog barking like that? What's going on?" at a high rate of speed. Needless to say, I got the fuck back in the house because, oh, hello, giant strange man with obviously not-good intentions, I see you're suddenly 3 feet away! (And of course, my getting the fuck back in the house was done calmly and while ignoring him. Don't want to show the little pukebag that he had me riled.)

They make me angry because they scare me. I know better than to under estimate stupid people in large groups, and while I'm not saying that these boys (men?) are unintelligent, I'm saying that bravado makes a person do stupid things. Wanting to prove to your buddies how tough you are, how much of a man you are, makes a person do things that can be terrible. I don't like being scared. There are also never more than 6 of them, so I suppose that doesn't constitue a 'large' group, although they are all large individually. Tall, broad boys with the added weight of enormous chips on their shoulders... And I don't know that it would take more than one of a person that has 4 inches and 75 pounds on me to do some damage, if they had a mind to... Also: Working in the profession that I do, I feel reasonably secure in believing that these boys are not wholesome, sweet boys, but instead asshole fuckwads out to prove a point to the world. I don't want to be a point, and they seem to be trying to make me one. So I am a little bit afraid. And that pisses me right the hell off.

And I am at a loss. I don't know what to do, because I worry that whatever I do will make it worse. People like these get off on having control. If I were to confront them, they would know they are bothering me. If I continue ignoring them, they may take it as a sign of weakness. I just don't know what the hell to do.

Wherein I am a redneck.

2009-06-14T18:53:00.000-07:00

I feel like writing, but am having an ugly, disgusting, not so good, very bad, pissy day. So I'm going to make lists instead of coming up with anything of interest or content.

Things I don't like:

-Strangers. I don't like it when they touch me, or look at me, or speak to me in an intimate way. It makes me so uncomfortable that I get physically squirmy and turn into one of Those People... The ones that are weird. The ones that freak other people out but what do I care because Strangers deserve to be scared, so fuck them.

-Flour. The kind you bake with. I can't touch it or see other people touch it. I also can't HEAR someone touching it. (Shut up. It does too make a sound.) It makes my teeth itch and then I DIE because have you ever touched flour? Urp. It makes me gag just thinking about it.

-Judgemental people. In my line of work, a lot of us become jaded and harden ourselves against any sort of sympathy toward the majority of the people we deal with. It's a defense mechanism, but also a result of the fact that you only have so much Give a Shit to give before you start wondering why people can't suck it up and solve their own problems. A lot of us become judgemental -- we see something we think we've seen a million times before, and the human aspect of the situation fails to register. We forget there are people under there with stories and lives and motives, and that nothing is ever REALLY the exact same as anything else. It's a challenge to remain open minded, but I think we should all try. It can't hurt anyone to treat another person with kindness and sympathy, and people respond to that even in the darkest of times.

-Tequila. It burns us, Precious. First of all, if I drink tequila I taste it for a week. I don't want to taste anything for a week. Secondly, I do silly things like decide that contrary to all evidence proving otherwise, I can TOTALLY do cartwheels. Also? Singing in public is my favorite.

Things I like:

-Physical contact. Any and all physical contact, as long as it isn't with a stranger. I have some sensory issues that cause my skin to be incredibly sensitive (or, more accurately, cause my perception of touch to be heightened) and I always feel better when I'm touching someone or being touched. It instantly soothes me. I especially love hugs. I know that makes me lame, because hugs are all gooey and mushy and whatever, but I just really do love them.

-The air at dusk in the summertime here in my hometown. It feels like silk against your skin. It feels alive. And truly, there is nothing that smells half so sweet as the air here at dawn and dusk. Can I just tell you that I really, really appreciate living in a rural state? Make fun of us as rednecks all you want, but at least our lungs aren't being choked by smog. Can I get a HELL YEAH for us hillbillies and our toxin-free air?

-Charity. Any and all charity. If you have something you can give another person to help them, it just feels nice. Plus? Doing something for nothing is good for the soul. I'm a firm believer in the idea that you're never given more than you can handle (because we're made stronger than we think we are, not because we're being coddled,) but also that when you're given more than you need it's a kind of responsibility to find a use for it and help someone else. I think it's part of our purpose here, to help each other. We need to look out for each other-- we're all in this together. (Keep your stick on the ice. QUICK! Name that show!)

-Jack Daniels. Hell to the yes. I love the way it tastes, I love the pretty color it is. I even love the way it smells. I'd wear that shit as perfume if I wouldn't get thrown in the drunk tank when I got pulled over for speeding (which hasn't happened in a long time, knock on wood, amen.) I'm going to have myself a nice double shot here in about a year, when this gestating thing is over and the breast feeding is done with, and I can't wait.

Lucky lady.

2009-06-13T14:20:00.000-07:00

This gig's pretty cool.

I got up to get ready for work today after feeling kind of blah and bitchy all morning, trudged into the bathroom and shut the door to keep the dog out. (She responds to my blah/bitchy moods by becoming clingy, which doesn't so much work when I'm not feeling very affectionate. It actually makes me want to lock her in the closet so that the endless musical tinkling of her tags as she paces around me will stop.) I needed to get ready and didn't feel like tripping over her, as there's literally 8 square feet of floor space in my bathroom and my dog is easy to trip over even when she's not being a neurotic pain in the ass, which is never.

ASIDE: For the record, it's the dog's fault I was in a sour mood. I got home last night to find that she'd gotten a hold of my prenatal vitamins, which had been on my kitchen counter. She's NEVER gotten anything off the counter, I hadn't thought she was big enough, and why the hell would a bottle of pills be the first thing she snatched? Because she's crazy, that's why, and she wants to torture me until I pull all of my hair out and die. Anyway... This new development meant that the night I had planned was immediately scrapped and pasted over with a new agenda: Stay awake most of the night and keep an eye on the mutt to ensure that she hadn't ingested any of the pills and was going to die of iron poisoning. So I didn't sleep much for keeping an eye on her.

And of course she's fine. Better than fine. Not so much as a hitch in her giddy up. You'd never know she was a VERY BAD DOG last night. Silly damn girl didn't even have the decency to throw up or something for my troubles. (I kid. I don't want her to be sick. I'm thrilled she's not sick. Or, at least I would be, if I were awake.)

Anyway! What I was saying: I locked myself in the bathroom and got dressed, then decided to maybe do a little something with my face and hair area since I haven't in... uh... a really long time, and don't usually anyway but I was in need of a little help, what with the staying up all night. So I look in the mirror and as I'm turning to the side to make sure all of my very long, very unruly hair was up and out of the way, I see a bump.

A very distinct bump, in my stomach region.

I swear, I sat there and laughed for a good ten minutes. Not because there's a bump (there should be by this point, 4 months into The Knocked Up) but just because I was happy. I was so stupidly happy to be looking at visible proof, proof that ANYONE could see (if they knew what they were looking at) that this is real. I'm really pregnant, there's really a baby in there, and he/she is really okay right now.

It made my day. I've been pretty happy and relaxed since then, just content. Which is saying a lot, considering I've been at work all day and holy crap, do I hate my job right now. So yeah, this gig is pretty cool, pretty exciting. I'm really stoked. I can't wait to get BIGGER, actually, and I know people think I don't really mean that but I do. Bigger = baby is growing = healthy baby = AWESOME.

Roller Coaster (of Love)

2009-06-12T14:28:00.001-07:00

Felt the little giblet move big time last night, no denying it.

PARTY OVER HERE.

It felt like going over the top of a big hill while driving way too fast. I actually leaned forward and went "wuuh--oh!" And then looked down at the pooch. I don't know what I thought I'd see, but after feeling my belly button get tickled from the inside (Not like that. But since we're on the subject, I NEED SOME OF THAT.) I guess I expected some sort of a flag to poke out. Like the kind that shoots out of a fake gun in a cartoon, but instead of "BANG!" it'd say "What up, Momma? IT'S ME!" or... I don't know, something. I haven't been sleeping much, so I'm a little fogged out, but it would totally say something in the way of a greeting.

Can I just tell you that holy shit, what a feeling? I mean... wow. But it's had me all up in the air since I felt it because (BUMMER ALERT!) when I was pregnant last time, the only time I felt the baby move was when she was dying. (I know, I'm sorry. I warned you.) I remember it so clearly- we were coming down the hill, on the way from the cemetery and my mother's funeral, to the picnic we were holding afterward. I was so thrilled to have something on that day be positive, so relieved and excited. Little did I know, right? The only reason I could feel her (I was about 14 weeks along) was because my uterus was losing fluid and... just, blah, whatever, I don't want to get into the sadness right now, and I only mention it to note that this RIGHT HERE, this memory, is the reason that feeling my baby move so strongly is wonderful but still terrifying.

I would give anything to not be afraid, to be confident that we can do this and it's all going to be okay. I would give anything to be free of this heavy, oppressive weight on top of our joy, and I am absolutely Kelly fucking green with envy when I see women breezing through their pregnancy without a care in the world. Oh, how I envy you, that you don't have to TRY to believe that your baby won't die, that you just assume everything will be okay.

Everything will be okay, I think. I think we're okay. And I'm so, so happy about this baby... Jesus, am I ever happy. I irritate myself with the stupid trained-monkey grinning all the time for no reason, because (as you may have noticed here) I am a generally cantankerous person. I try not to be, but I can admit this about myself: I'm a little bit (a lotta bit?) of a crabby pain in the ass sometimes. So this happiness is new, and it's foreign, and I don't trust it. But I'm trying, I am.

Hey, did I mention? I totally felt my baby move for real yesterday. (Feel free to insert monkey grinning *here.* Bananas are in a box next to the door.)

I am the Frito Bandito.

2009-06-09T10:50:00.000-07:00

That's not PC, is it? It was a funny commercial, though. Nice jingle. We seem, as a country, to have become consumed by these gasping vapors of "Oh, that's not nice!"

I, obviously, am one of the consumed. See: Irate post down there about Proposition 8.

Sorry about that. I won't go into it again, I was just... venting. Blowing my top some. I just don't like to think of people being hurt for being who they are. It makes me twitchy. So moving on.

I've been in New York for the past week or so, to put whomever reads this thing's mind at ease: I didn't go and throw myself into traffic in a fit of rage after the whole "Don't be mean to the gays, you mean meanies" post.

My sister lives there. In New York, that is-- the sister that's older, but I have trouble not calling her "My Little Sister." (Wasn't there a doll by that name a while ago?) The one that was there with me through all of the issues with our mother, the one I wound up and wind up mothering a good bit myself. There's another sister, too, an older one. Older by 14 years, or something like that... It's not that we aren't close, we just aren't AS close. Living with The Crazy will bond people together, I guess, and being as The Oldest missed most of that (she was around for Unstable and Rocky, but long gone from the house by the time Oh Shit and Full On Fucked Up hit) she had trouble understanding the extent of it all. So that has a way of driving a rift between people, you know, when one of them is saying how hard a situation is, and the other is saying it can't possibly be so bad because they haven't looked it in the eye.

...I can't tell yet if this is going to be a blog about New York and how it's beautiful but smells like urine, or about my mother and how hard it was to leave my sister. Shit. I'm all discombobulated, here. I stepped off the plane harboring some nasty cold bug that has since burrowed itself into my head and neck and stomach, and the resulting fever on top of this pregnancy thing is making me a little bit insane. Oops. Correction: A little bit MORE insane.

Speaking of the bug I have: I got it from my sister's dickhead fiance. He was hacking all over everything while I was there, saying, "I'm not contagious."

My pasty white ass.

That guy's about 7 feet tall and might be just north of 250 pounds. Do you know how much mucous and general disgusting shit can come out of a person that big? A LOT, that's how much. And when he's pretty much spraying all and sundry everywhere he points his hack hole... Well, how were we supposed to avoid catching it? We weren't. The Older and I both got it, as we were obviously going to. And that makes him just goddamned rude.

Huh. I guess it's going to be about New York, after all. In a fashion, anyway. I think I want to talk about Big Boy and The Older.

See, The Oldest has always had this idea that The Older would marry the first person she seriously dated. I always bucked against that because I thought it was trite and that The Oldest was passing judgement against The Older and the fact that she wasn't much for dating or friends or people or being social at all. So I defended her. Wrongly, as it turns out, because as nice as Big Boy is, he's a manipulative, whining pain in the ass sometimes, and I'm afraid that part of the reason The Older puts up with that is that she's afraid to be alone. I think sometimes that she's afraid she won't find someone else to love her, so she stays with Big Boy and his mother.

Wait. Did I mention they're caring for his bed ridden mother? Oh, fuck, this post could go on for YEARS... Okay, so Big Boy's mother is bed ridden. She's not in bed because she's sick, she's SICK because she's IN BED. She's BEEN in that bed for the last 25 years. (I'm not exaggerating. That bed. The whole time. 25 years. No, wait. She was hospitalized for the entire duration of Big's high school years, during which time he had to fend for himself. So her ass was ridden to a different bed that time.) The reason she's been in that bed for 25 years is that she understood that if she could care for herself, eventually her son would leave her and have his own life, and she would be alone. So she took herself a lie down one day, and just decided not to get up.

No joke, people. This is the extent of the woman's selfishness: She's decided to kill herself (the health problems associated with a near-30-year stretch of bed rest are terrible and will end her life) so that her son cannot leave her.

So you can see that Big might have had some good long years to study the in's and out's of extreme selfishness and manipulation. Case in point:

We went to The Met for The Older's birthday. She loves that place, and she was so excited to show it to me. (Let me stress here, as I have before: My sister is the closest thing in the world to my heart. She is my soul, I would die and kill for her without question. She is the sweetest, most caring, giving person in the world. She is also a touch spineless when it comes to people. This is not a good combination for her sake. Let us carry on.) So we go in, and not 10 minutes into our little adventure, Big picks a fight with The Older.

On her birthday.

In her favorite place in the world.

With me (Who had been on planes and in airports for 13 motherfucking hours to get there to be with her) standing a foot away.

ON HER BIRTHDAY. Did I say that? Because let me also say that our birthdays have always been extra special to us- we make them special for each other. We've always thought that your birthday is the one day a year that people should express their happiness that you're alive, and that is a pretty precious thing that you cling to when you grow up in a home as volatile as ours could be.

Anyway. It was the single most juvenile, selfish, ridiculous load of bullshit I've ever seen in my life, and because of it I can honestly say that I will never look at that man the same way again. Ever. He stormed off. IN THE MET. Stomped off like he was 6 years old!

Excuse me, but if you're a grown ass person, what in the hell are you doing? Just what in the hell are you doing A: picking a fight with someone in public (a very classy, quiet, upscale, famous public, Jesus Christ, amen,) and B: Stomping off? Oh, that's right. You've no business acting that way AT ALL, so scrote up and act like a big boy, there, Big Boy.

I said as much. It was not well received. Now Karma is kicking my ass for being mean and I keep trying to hack up my spleen. Oh, and The Older wound up caving in and basically apologizing to him for his big fat leaking man-gina and the feelings she didn't hurt in the first place. Whatever. All I know is that I no longer think Big is at all good for The Older, and if he ever gives me another reason to punch him in the throat, I'm not going to hesitate. Unless, I suppose, it's in The Met on my sister's birthday.

Because for the love of God, we can all show restraint on occasion.

(The trip was probably entirely lovely. This has just been stewing in my head since it happened over a week ago, and I needed to express it. Also, the cold I have is distracting me from the fact that I don't know but I'm almost sure that I can feel the baby moving, which is kind of pissing me off. The distraction, not the movement, which is awesome and amazing and incredible.)

What the fuck.

2009-05-26T20:06:00.000-07:00

I can't even think of what to call this post. All I know is that it will not be eloquent. It will not be pretty - not that any of them are. I am just so goddamned angry. (Oh. Yeah. There's going to be more profanity than usual. This is your warning. There are also very strong opinions, and I'm sorry if you don't agree with them. Please, please know that I am absolutely consumed by anger right now, and that whatever your opinion on this issue is, I respect it. No matter how many times I tell you to go fuck yourself with it.)

Today, the California Supreme Court ruled to uphold Proposition 8.

I am furious. Dumbfounded. Confused. So, so disappointed. But most of all? There is rage.

I think the rage comes not only from the absolute disbelief that the system could do this to anyone, that they could uphold something that is ENTIRELY UNCONSTITUTIONAL, but also it is born of my fear for my unborn child. How in the hell are we supposed to protect our children from bigotry and hate when it's being woven into our JUSTICE SYSTEM? How can this have happened?

Fuck you, California. Fuck you and your inability to seperate Church and State. Fuck you and the right you think you have to tell an enormous chunk of your population that they don't deserve love, or happiness, or families, or the benefits that they would collect if they could only manage to be straight. Fuck you for boning it up when the entire country was looking to you to set an example, to pave the way. As I said earlier, commenting on a blog I read and love: For a state that is supposed to be full of liberals and hippies, you don't seem to understand that it is not RECYCLING to shred the CONSTITUTION.

You know, I have a question: WHAT THE FUCK HARM ARE THEY DOING? Huh? Seriously! HOW COULD IT HAVE HURT ANYONE to say, "You know what, this is wrong. It's wrong to seperate people this way. It's wrong to tell people that because we don't all approve of what they're doing, they aren't going to be allowed to do it in the way they deserve to because WE ARE BIGGER and THERE ARE MORE OF US. It's wrong to do this to people, to hurt them this way, to tear apart families and make legal decisions based on our religious beliefs. THIS IS WRONG and WE WILL NOT DO IT."

How FUCKING HARD would that have been?! Who is anyone hurting by being gay? Who gives a shit who another person loves? Who has it EVER HURT to LOVE SOMEONE? The more love in the world, the better. Who could it hurt? How could there be a LAW passed to prevent people from being together in the way that we are all entitled to be, regardless of the reasons?

Listen, for god's sake... I'm straight. I'm a straight, unmarried, knocked up, skinny little white girl that lives in the midwest. I've never known adversity because of my belief system, my sexual preference or the way that I look. Members of my family certainly have, my friends certainly have, and it's certainly possible that my child may someday. But I can PROMISE you that if you came to me and told me that my rights were going to be taken away LEGALLY, or the rights of my family members, or my friends, or my child?

I would motherfucking kill you.

I would. I really would. Because for some reason, it's one thing to simply quietly deny people something, to pretend that basic human rights don't exist for some because of a skewed goddamned sense of right and wrong, to leave the possibility open that because it's unconstitutional to deny people something that SOMEDAY they will be able to HAVE IT. Then it's ENTIRELY ANOTHER THING to PASS A LAW DENYING THOSE RIGHTS. You know? One is terrible and bad and awful, the other is like BURN DOWN YOUR HOUSE wrong. The level of WRONG is astounding! I cannot wrap my mind around it! How dare they do this? How dare they pass a LAW denying people their rights?! This is the single most outlandish, terrible, blatantly hateful thing I've ever heard of. You don't have to agree with homosexuality, but not agreeing with something is not a LEGAL REASON to decide anything!

JESUS, you guys! Just... we all deserve happiness. We all deserve equality. Everyone deserves to spring from the same board, have an equal and fair chance to go whatever distance they can make it to, uninhibited by hate and fear and this terrible sense of a class system where WE'RE better and THEY'RE worse because MY GOD SAYS SO and there are LAWS TO KEEP IT THAT WAY.

Fuck this shit. Especially fuck the people that are hiding behind their giant puppets of what they think their god is: some hateful, discriminatory giant full of anger and judgement. Shame on them for using anyone's faith to get them to hurt. GOD IS NOT HURT. There is NO PAIN in god. Not mine, anyway, and I look forward to the day MY god kicks the shit out of that puppet god in some sort of Vulcan fucking death match and we can all be the better for it, able to love and live and be happy. Shame on these people, twisting the word of god (ANY GOD!) into something hurtful, something cruel.

We do not DO this. We do not pass laws to hurt people. We do not use the LEGAL SYSTEM, which only exists to protect people, TO HURT.

I know that 48% of voters were against this. But man... What the hell happened to the rest of them?

This cannot stand. Jesus Christ, tell me it will not stand...

This is me, trying not to panic.

2009-05-24T09:59:00.001-07:00

I'm losing weight. Not much, but enough to look at the scale and go, "Huh. I should weigh more than that normally." Like maybe five pounds total. So not much. But enough.

I haven't been sick, really. I'm one of the lucky girls that doesn't have to bellow like an elephant seal into the toilet before or after every meal. Me and ol' Thunder Bucket have only had a small handful of serious chats... and they weren't terrible, and occurred weeks ago.

Is this normal? I'm 13 weeks pregnant and losing weight without being sick, and eating constantly.

I know there are women out there that would kill to have that problem, but seriously. I'm not that girl. I don't randomly lose weight - quite the contrary. I can beat the hell out of myself and diet until I want to faint, and my body stays the same size. Because I'm Bohemian, this is my curse: I do not lose weight for no reason.

It's a holiday weekend -- I can't talk to my doctor until Tuesday. I fly to New York for a week on Friday. I'm trying really hard not to freak out right now.

What in the hell am I doing losing weight? What if something's wrong?

I'm scared. I'm trying not to be scared, but I am. I really am.

Scars.

2009-05-23T14:00:00.000-07:00

The other day The Boy and I were talking about our childhoods. This isn’t that unusual—we each know things about each other’s lives during those years that no one but the closest family witnessed and so knows… They weren’t all sunshine and roses, either of our lives at those times. There wasn’t any A Child Called It kind of shit going around, at least not really, but it wasn’t a pretty time. Being pregnant, it’s a natural thing that we’d find ourselves talking about these things and how we swear not to inflict what we went through on our children.

I got misty thinking of it all… All of the things we went through that this baby won’t ever have to deal with. All of the things that hurt us, made us want to die, but taught us to do better. Our child won’t have to feel that kind of pain because we did, and by some miracle it didn’t kill either of us.

His worst scars come at the hands of his step father, and it all started when he was quite young. It didn’t stop for a lot of years, until he was into his teens and started fighting back, and even then I think it only stopped completely because that man was in the process of a divorce with The Boy’s mother, and so he was gone for long stretches of time. I think if The Boy’s fucked up little family unit had stayed together much longer, that man would have killed him. They have an alright relationship now because The Boy is of such kind heart that he can’t turn down a peace offering, and that man is in declining health and in the mood to mend fences. I hope when he dies, he realizes what he almost did. I don’t wish him pain but am afraid I would inflict a considerable amount of it if we ever met, and so I’ve requested for that not to happen. I won’t say any more about his story, because it is his and not mine to tell. I only mention it here as a note in regard to what happened in his life: One of the many traumatic, terrible things that has somehow shaped him into an incredibly giving, loving person.

My wounds came later than his, not starting until I was about 10 years old, and then ramping up exponentially until I was 17 and moved out of the war zone. Mine was never a physical battle, but an emotional one that left me fucked to the bones, raw and flayed open and destroyed on every level. My mother was not capable of caring for me. She cared ABOUT me very much, but could not care FOR me- she found great difficulty in understanding anything I ever was or said or did, and so she was rendered a cripple when it came to nursing or tending me in any way. Because of this, I was largely left to my own devices, ignored for the most part unless we were locking horns. Which was frequently.

I understood at a young age that the problems between my mother and I stemmed from her mental illness. I never blamed her for that, never held it against her. I understood that nothing she ever said or did was intentional, that she was a victim of her traitorous mind just like we were. All of us together, held captive for years by her illness and our responses to it… It took so many years to become peaceful in regard to what was always happening at her hands, what I in turn did with mine as retaliation. So many years, when I should have been having a childhood and growing up, were spent instead parenting my sister because our mother often could not. They were also spent parenting my mother, as our roles were frequently reversed

Although I understood her, sympathized with her, made the conscious choice not to hate her for what she did, it made a person tired. The constant trauma turned itself into a blade and cut down deep to the core of what I was, and it cauterized everything on its way out. I was burned alive, everything inside scarred and dead or dying for a very, very long time. I was angry, terribly angry, FURIOUS even that she refused to acknowledge her illness and get help, thus making herself available to the daughters that needed her. The rage was useless, however satisfying. It broke both of us, turned us into feral things.

When I moved out and moved 3 hours away, the distance was enough for us to be able to see each other clearly for the first time in my life. We became very close – as close as we always were when we weren’t doing our best to kill each other, only now that closeness wasn’t tainted with bursts of terrible rage. She apologized frequently for what happened between the two of us (my sister was spared- only a target for perhaps 6 months total of our child hood, and only then when she was protecting me) and I always told her it was okay. And it was. It is. Everything that happened, I understood and understand. I never felt like she needed to apologize to me, regardless of the pain all of it caused. She would have stopped it all if she could, of course she would have. She would have smoothed it all over if she had the ability, she just simply did not have it. I loved her fiercely, and love her still 4 short years after her death.

I write all of this here because… I don’t know why, really. Because I love her so much, so terribly much, EVEN THOUGH. I don’t want my children to love me DESPITE the things I do, I don’t want them to be afraid of the things I’m going to say, constantly trying to get out of my way while always trying to be good enough to pacify, but constantly falling short.

The things people do to their children can reach out and burn, leaving a scar there forever. They are molded and shaped and then shoved off into the world, able only to move how we teach them to. We might show them what to do only by doing the things they never should, instead of teaching them to mimic our correct and right steps.

I don’t want to be that kind of teacher. I worry that I will be, that I won’t be able to control it, like she wasn’t. I would never be able to forgive myself, the way I forgave her.

Shitbags.

2009-05-16T13:13:00.000-07:00

My right eye is twitching.

Not the eye itself but the lid, I guess, to be specific.

I've been up since 3 AM.

Do you think the two might be related? I do. Let me tell you a story. No, really. LET ME. I need to, or I’ll die.

This morning (early enough to be considered last night) I made myself feel very old for scolding complete strangers. I didn't mean to scold them. I wasn't going to do it, I was just going to ignore the situation because I didn't want any hurt feelings. So what if I was woken up at 3 AM and kept awake for an hour and 46 minutes (I was watching the fucking clock. So, too, would you have been. Watching the clock, that is, not tired, but THAT TOO) by total strangers, when they KNEW I WAS THERE SLEEPING? So what if someone LITERALLY would have gotten SHOT if I’d known where a gun was because they were making so much noise, it sounded like they were kicking the door in? (I’M NOT EVEN KIDDING. I would have shot someone. Because I don’t give a shit who you are, if you sound like you’re breaking into the house I’m sleeping in, I’m going to shoot you in the face if that is an option- as opposed to even entertain the risk that you’re going to hurt my unborn child. Yeah. THAT’S HOW IT IS.)

Aside: DUDE. If you are a guest of a friend who was nice and STUPID enough to let you crash at a family member's house without permission when she does not live there and has not requested permission to be there herself, let alone with company, TRY NOT TO BE A DICK. Seriously. Work on it as hard as you can, or you're going to have someone who's a scant FOUR YEARS OLDER THAN YOU ARE treating you like you're a fucking CHILD. Ha! Literally.

So, like I was saying: I honest-to-god wasn't going to say anything because as nasty as I can be, I have that whole STRANGER ISSUE that I've talked about here before, wherein I don't like them. I seriously, really, really don't like strangers. It's not that I'm afraid of them, necessarily (but sometimes I am) it's just that I don't really want to impose upon them (EVEN WHEN THEY'RE KEEPING MY PREGNANT SELF AWAKE WITH THEIR DRUNKEN B.S) or like, have them touch me or anything. Ever. And I don't like to make people feel bad. Even when, like I may have mentioned here very subtly, they are keeping me awake. When I'm pregnant. At three AM. And their “host”? SHE'S GONE TO BED, AND WAS NEVER BEING AS LOUD AS THEY WERE. So their loudness was INFINITELY MORE IRRITATING.

Another aside! : DUDE AGAIN! So, like, when I was a partier -- which I was, semi-professionally for a very short time, and on an occasional basis for many-a-year -- and I was at someone else's house after the bar? I kept my noise level where their noise level was. I did not throw myself into the house, proceed to slam every door I saw, and yell. Nor did I (and this is the kicker) have very loud, drunken adult activity sessions on the couch I found in the living room if A: my host wasn’t a GREAT friend, B: that couch did not belong to my host, and C: it wasn't obvious that I was going to be using the couch as a vehicle to get my rocks off, and I wasn’t given express permission to do it. IT here being USE A STRANGER'S COUCH FOR SEX. Because that, right there, is trashy, and I don't care how young or drunk you are. Have some self respect. Also? Maybe some respect for the person who's house you’re in, or the person sleeping 15 feet away from you would be cool. Just an idea. (I know having drunken sex on a stranger's couch is all hot and sweaty and impromptu and spontanious and just really young and super sexy, but not when there's a pregnant girl who practically owns the couch you're sexin' on trying to sleep 5 yards away. And you're being REALLY LOUD. Like, JUNGLE NOISE LOUD. And the couch is slamming into the wall like you're trying to break that fucker down. Seriously. Not cool.)

Feh! So! To continue! I wasn't going to say anything. After all, NOT MY HOUSE. And like I said: I don’t like to be mean to people. So, I was just going to like, get up and go on my merry way. (At 4:45 in the morning by then. You guess exactly how merry my way was by that point.) But then I was looking for my flip flops in the dark, because I didn't want to turn on the light and embarrass the people that had been keeping me awake (!??!) when I realized that there was no more noise. (There had been a lot of noise.) Which made me realize that while I was fumbling for my shoes in the dead of night, the two people that were in the dark room at my back had done the FREEZE AND PRETEND WE’RE ASLEEP thing, so that I would be polite enough to leave them alone.

Let me stress that, because I don’t think I have: They were pretending to be ASLEEP (the thing I had been, before they had totally disrespected everyone in the situation by being loud assholes) so that I would not confront them (about being loud assholes)… So they were relying on my decency and humility (of which they had none) to keep me from confronting them about what they had been doing. Which meant they knew they were being assholes and didn’t want to get called out. (F'in WHAT!?)

So, like… Obviously, I had to say something. It literally wasn’t even an option because all of this occurred to me in a split second, and I couldn’t really stop the INSTANT RAGE that bubbled up and out of my mouth. Before that second, I had not been angry. I had been put out, because I had been sleeping before they decided it was appropriate to be rude, but I was understanding because dude – young and drunk. Whatever. We’ve all been there, or near there, or can understand the motivation or lack thereof. I personally, pre-gestationally, had quite the love affair with Mr. Jack Daniels and was known to sing Elton John loudly while falling down the sidewalk. What the fuck ever. I generally try not to harsh out someone’s buzz. Judge not, and all that.

So, with my back to them (Still not wanting to embarrass the little fuckers -ha!) while getting my shoes on, I said very calmly, very clearly:

“Do either of you even KNOW the person who’s house you’re in right now?”

…Silence.

WELL FUCK THAT, YOU LITTLE SHITBAGS.

I’d not two minutes before heard them making some very specific noises that only happen when two (or more!) people are doing very specific things (And we ain’t talkin’ about whittling here, folks,) while making an incredibly active effort to destroy the property of someone I’m protective over – and so, obviously, am I protective over his shit - and they were going to pretend to sleep when I was addressing them? AFTER THEY WOKE ME UP AND KEPT ME AWAKE, they were going to pretend they HADN’T been so incredibly rude? Hell to the no, home skillet, I don’t even think so.

I flipped the bedroom light on, turned around, took a couple of steps further into the living room and leaned toward them. They actually had their eyes squeezed shut. Like babies, pretending to sleep. (If you’re going to be brazen enough to hole drunken, naked gymnastics on a stranger’s couch, be brazen enough to make eye contact with that stranger’s pregnant, tired girlfriend when she confronts you about your bullshit, children. And yes, suddenly, apparently: The Girl, THY NAME IS CONSEQUENCE.) So I raised my voice a few million decibels and repeated:

“YOU. BOTH OF YOU ON THE COUCH. Do either of you KNOW the person WHO’S HOUSE YOU’RE IN RIGHT NOW?”

They actually flinched, both of them. Thus unable to ignore me or continue this little I-can’t-see-you-so-you-can’t-see-me game, the guy gets up OFF OF THE GIRL (Yeah. YEAH.) who was seriously covering her face with one hand because the light was burning her poor rude little drunken eyes, and he goes, “What? Yeah. Um, dumb-girl-who-put-us-up-out-of-the-kindness-of-her-misguided-heart-even-though-the-homeowner-wouldn’t-have-approved-of-this’s-name-here’s brother. Yeah… Um, I met him once.”

You don’t even know his name? Well, fuck that, too!

“Oh, awesome! Well, just to be clear, THAT’S NOT WELL ENOUGH TO KNOW SOMEONE AND FUCK ON THEIR COUCH. You guys are NEAT.”

Then I left. And if they’d had a car, I would have slashed its motherfucking tires, because I was so angry that my chest was aching. I seriously thought “Am I going to have a heart attack from rage? I haven’t been angry in so long that it’s actually going to kill me?” I have rarely experienced something SO. DAMN. RUDE.

And from what I hear, the father of my child came home shortly after I left and regulated some shit… Which makes me feel bad for his sister, who was just being nice to her friends, but just for a second because come the fuck on. Those friends were really, really disrespectful. And if I’d still been there when he lost his shit? I would have been right there with him, chewing ass. I’m really proud of him for standing up for himself because he doesn’t always, because he really doesn’t like to be angry. But this situation? This was OBVIOUSLY going to make him angry. You can’t know him and believe otherwise. You can only have hoped to avoid getting caught doing something that would make him this angry. Which, um. No. There’s some strangers bodily fluids on his micro suede couch. Pretty sure he’d catch on one way or the other, being paid to DETECT shit like he is. WE don't even have sex on that couch, you stranger assholes!

Word to the third aside: If someone came out of the bedroom they’d been sleeping in, in a house that was like a BILLION PERCENT more their property than mine, scolded me for being seriously stupid, and then stormed out into the dark because oh my god, it’s not even DAWN YET? I’d probably get the hell out of Dodge. Not these two geniuses. Nope. They stuck around to get their asses reamed by someone who does a much better job than I do. I yell a lot, so the impact is lower. He NEVER yells, so it’s shocking and terrifying. And he hates having to yell, which makes him angrier.

Most of all, he really hates disrespectful people. Some of us aren’t new to the whole drunken scene (and are, you know, ADULTS AND SHIT) and realize that it’s never cool to be disrespectful. It’s ALWAYS a dick move. ALWAYS. And these people weren’t only being disrespectful, they were doing it in his house. Without his permission to be there.

Dooooode.

Not a good plan. Such a bad plan that it comes with sirens, on fire, flashing neon, with stickers that say BAD FUCKING PLAN and a midget to read the REALLY BAD PLAN stickers repeatedly and in various ominous accents.

Moral of the story: Don’t wake me up at 3 AM. No, scratch that. That wasn’t the issue. Don’t wake me up and KEEP ME UP for close to TWO HOURS with your bullshit behavior and then try to pretend you haven’t done anything, or I may be forced to break my foot off in your stupid, stupid ass. Furthermore: Don’t piss off my boyfriend. He never gets angry, and when he does it is a terrible thing. Terrible.

Also: My eye is still fucking twitching.

Baby, or Plague? Potato, po-tah-to.

2009-05-08T12:04:00.000-07:00

I'm starting to wonder if instead of pregnant, I might be infected with some strange disease. I have good(ish) reason for suspecting this, some of which include:

-I itch. A LOT... Especially from the knees down. My skin itches so bad, it burns. I kind of want to peel it off and start over.

-I'm hot. Wait, no. I'm cold. Wait. Hot. Fuck... do you have a blanket? But one that won't keep me warm when I want to be cooled off? Why are you looking at me like that?

-I'm really stuffed up. I know that doesn't mean I have the Black Death, but it doesn't mean I don't.

-There are random pains everywhere. Just now, it feels like someone poked me in my orbital bone. Hard. Earlier, my right hip was stabby-ow for a split second. My whole body seems to be on the fritz.

-My eyes are really dry. I've always had a phobia about rubbing my eyes and now I can't stop doing it, and every time I do there's this voice in the back of my head screaming "YOU'RE GOING TO GO BLIND!" because my mom said rubbing your eyes too hard could sever your cornea, or something terrible like that. Because she was an alarmist. And now so am I. Jesus save me.

-I'm super sensitive to light and sound. The darker and quieter a room is, the happier I am.

...Obviously, you see, I'm dying. These aren't hormonal reactions. They're clearly the symptoms of plague and death and misery and woe.

(Except I'm not miserable, or ... woeful. Just amazed how much being pregnant can resemble being really sick with something pretty nasty, except without the nasty. It's all very strange.)

I make no sense.

2009-05-05T08:59:00.000-07:00

You know when you intentionally do something that you know will make you sick?

Like drink tequila or whiskey until you think your name is Jimmy and you can fly? Or take your prenatal vitamin and antibiotics in the morning, as opposed to before bed when you would usually take them because they rock you like a hurricane, but you got paranoid because you forgot to take them the night before and WHAT IF THE BABY'S BRAIN IS TINY BECAUSE YOU FORGOT TO TAKE THE FUCKING PRENATAL LAST NIGHT, AIEEEEEE!?

Yeah. I'm kind of stupid. Also? I'm kind of sick. And it's not going to go away for like, 4 or 5 hours. So fuck my life.

Great thing that happened yesterday: Heard the baby's heartbeat. Wooka-wooka-wooka, little Bean said, and I heard him (her?) loud and clear. It was the single most incredible moment of my life. Amazing, enchanting, awesome. There aren't enough words in my mind to express how very cool. Soon, I might express exactly why.

Right now, however, I'm going to go try not to throw up.

Uhhh. Wait, no, what?

2009-04-28T22:34:00.000-07:00

So, like, I keep forgetting I'm pregnant.

I mean, that's not exactly true. It's not like I'm pushing open the door to the bar and I'm all "Eureka! Hold up a moment, there, chum, I believe I may be gestating! Rats, perhaps I may take a rain check?" because no, seriously, I stay away from things that are bad for me or whatever.

It's just that most of the time? I don't feel pregnant. Other than that whole ONE FUCKING WEEK (how lucky am I? And here I sit, tempting fate again.) of uber sickness, I haven't been especially ill or anything, and I'm not really showing yet at 2.5 months, so... It's easy to forget there's a multiplying and dividing mass of cells and stuff growing in my belly.

Except when I get hungry. Which isn't entirely accurate, since I'm never hungry. Ever. I don't get hungry. I don't want to eat food, and no food sounds good. If I don't eat every 2-3 hours, however, I get SICK. Like, REALLY SICK. Like, grab your ankles and scream for Jesus until the desperation echos in your cooter and wakes the baby, sick.

But other than that? This thing isn't real to me yet. In fact, it's so unreal that when I'm experiencing a notable lack of sickness and complete void of any other symptoms of my delicate condition, I spend most of my time worrying. I worry that something's gone wrong, that the baby isn't growing, or that we'll go to the doctor on the 4th and find out hey, sorry! We don't know how all those tests and the first ultrasound were all wrong but guess what! No baby in your tummy! Go on home and have a good night! It's THAT unreal to me. So, so unreal.

That'll change, right? I'll relax at some point, right? I mean... I have to, don't I?

Pussy Boy go -splat-

2009-04-22T19:50:00.000-07:00

I almost ran over my ex today. Literally.

See, he does this thing where he pretends he can't see me, when he... uh, sees me. He'll physically turn away, hunch his shoulders, and pretend really hard that I'm invisible. This extends to anyone I might be with, even if he's good friends with them. They don't exist, nothing exists except whatever is in the exact opposite direction of wherever I am. He'll actually turn to keep his back to me, without any sense of irony, spinning in circles if I keep moving around him. I wish I were exaggerating, but I'm almost sure he even closes his eyes. He honestly is PRETENDING I'm not there, not just ignoring me. He's make-believing. My hand to Jesus, I swear it's true. He does this with a complete lack of humor, not seeing how rediculous it is at all.

Something about me being mind-numbingly happy and getting pregnant with my new boyfriend's kid a scant 5 months after I kicked him out of our apartment has apparently put his balls in a bunch. Or something. Me, personally, I smile and wave and chalk it up to a bad relationship come to end. We don't have to be friends, but there's no reason for us to be enemies.

He doesn't feel that way. He feels like I'm a giant evil douche bag that broke his heart (I kind of did that) and doesn't care (no... no, I don't, actually.) He's just a much better victim than I am. He's happy with it, so whatever. I try not to go against his wishes -- which he was specific about: "I never want to see The Girl again as long as I am alive." He not only said this to me, but to every common friend we have. He may have written a letter to the President and copied it to the Pope, for all I know. He's very serious and stern about it.

I digress! Moving along! So, I was driving and I came to a stop light on a corner, where I was going to turn right. I saw him standing on the corner, to my right, and he saw me so he did the THING. He turned away, stared straight ahead, and pretended I was not there. (Seriously, you can see him thinking I can't see you, I can't see you, La-la-la-la, I can't see you... It's bizarre. Mostly because he's 32, not 4.) When the light turned, I turned right.

Well, I don't know if he thought he could also pretend away my car or what, but he actually stepped in front of my MOVING VEHICLE. I'm not even kidding. Like, he stepped off of the curb and IN FRONT of my CAR.

I'm not actually clear on which of us has the right of way in this situation, but I'm pretty sure I wouldn't step in front of ANYONE without looking. Also, mind you, this is the person that I would gladly strangle into unconsciousness, and he realizes this. (I can't suffer perpetual victims and pompous assholes. I tried -for three years, yo- but I just can't.) He knows I have no patience for him and absolutely zero remorse about our relationship ending. I used to care that his feelings were hurt. Then he turned into a douche bag. Not surprisingly, I quickly stopped caring.

Now why in the hell would a person step in front of a moving vehicle being driven by someone that wouldn't stop to see if they were alive after running them over?

Motherfucker has some balls, I guess. I don't know. My best guess would be that he actually expected me to wait for him to cross the street. (Have I mentioned he's pretty full of himself? And over confident? And that everything is a power struggle, that he always has to be in control, and right, and you have to always pay complete attention to him and what he wants, and that by not being the first one to continue on his way, he would feel inferior? Because, oh yeah, THAT.) Or maybe he really thinks that by pretending I am not there, I won't be. Maybe he's got some kind of magic disappear-o power that he hid very well from me. I can see that being a possibility, and although I didn't FEEL invisible, I can promise you that I know for a fact my CAR was not. It was very real, very hard, and aimed right for his body.

So to make a long story longer, his reflexes seem to have improved since I helped him box up his shit and get it out of my apartment, because he very narrowly avoided my bumper by throwing himself backward onto the sidewalk.

I hope he skinned up his hands. Or at least his ass. I hope what he takes away from this isn't that I would gladly run him over (I wouldn't. But I'm not going to STOP if he steps in FRONT of me,) but that you can't just pretend things don't exist -- they're still there, moving through the world, all around you. All you're going to gain by refusing to look at something is the benefit of not realizing you're about to be run over.

Morning, my aching ass.

2009-04-17T15:06:00.000-07:00

They call it Morning Sickness because if they called it All The Fucking Time Sickness (No, Seriously, ALL THE MOTHERFUCKING TIME SICKNESS) we'd all be scared out of having sex and the human race would dry up and blow away like a fart in the wind.

Mine isn't bad yet. I mean, I don't think so. I kind of feel... bleh... most of the time. I wake up and for about 10 minutes I'm okay. Then I get to feeling... Bleh... Then I'm okay... Then the Bleh comes back, but it brings its friends, Achy and Fevery Without An Actual Fever. They're both kind of bastards that like to set up shop and hang out for most of the day.

People keep asking me if I'm puking. The answer is: No, but man, I'd LOVE that. Seriously. Like, have you ever been the kind of nauseous where you're thinking, "If I could just puke, I'd feel better,"? I've found myself there after ingesting Tequila, eating shellfish sold from a cart on the street, and that one time I thought it would be a good idea to eat KFC after a night of Jack Daniels and Jager chasers. That's where I am now. I've built a HOME there, gotten comfortable, really settled in. Only now it's not because of alcohol or food poisoning, it's because there are all of these cells dividing inside my abdomen. At least, that's what they tell me.

Even given this constant state of "I could puke out my eye holes at ANY MINUTE!" mixed with a healthy dash of "I think I've actually been asleep for the last 15 minutes," it still doesn't feel real. I know I don't feel like myself, I know I feel like SOMETHING is going on... But like I said, this could just be shellfish. It could be that the guy at Taco Bell sneezed on my Chalupa and now I've got a stomach bug. It could be anything, yaknow? I know it's the person growing inside of me, (for 8 short weeks already, today) but it doesn't seem real. I've seen the pixilated flicker of a heartbeat, I know there's something in there, LOGICALLY... But it's not clicking.

And can I confess something a little neurotic and silly? Every time I feel a pain in my stomach, I think every thing's going to pot and The Inevitable is happening. I figure it's too good to be true and something is bound to go wrong. My last pregnancy started to miscarry right around the point I'm at now. Although it stopped then and I lost the pregnancy later because PEOPLE ARE CRAZY, I keep expecting the same thing to happen now.

Every time I go to the bathroom and there's no blood, I feel this sense of "Really? Well shit. Wow. Awesome. Yay!" It's constantly a surprise that Something Bad isn't crashing down on us. I'm constantly talking to myself, saying things like, "Be positive. It's okay, every thing's going to be fine. YOU CAN DO IT!"

Sometimes, I even add a fist pump. Yes, I do. Because I'm the only one to hear my crazy, I don't have anyone else to fist pump for me. I don't want to worry my friends or The Boy with things, and I don't want them to feel like I'm being negative. I'm not trying to be. I'm trying to be as positive as I can, and I generally feel really good about things, so if I have to hear one of them say "Well, that negative attitude..." Or "Be positive!" I think I might punch them in the throat and play my maracas to the wheezing struggle for breath that follows.

I AM being positive. Things aren't all upset stomachs and exhaustion.

For instance: I can eat yogurt. This is huge, since yogurt has always made me projectile vomit. Actually, that isn't true. The THOUGHT of yogurt has always made me projectile vomit. I've never really tried to like it, because it's disgusting and sour and you can't make me, that's why. I tried it the other day, though, because my doctor put me on antibiotics for the remainder of the pregnancy. Something about how I had a double kidney infection 7 months ago, and oh, if that happens again I'll lose the baby. So! Antibiotics it is! And yogurt is supposed to help prevent... uh... any unpleasantness that prolonged antibiotics may cause. Downstairs. If you get my drift. You do, don't you? You're not going to make me type yeast infection on my blog are you? Oh, thank you. That might be offensive to some people. But it's my vagina and my blog, so fuck them. And yay for yogurt!

So, see... Things aren't bad. They're just nauseous. And tired. But that's good, right?

....Right?

So... Turns out I'm a dick.

2009-04-08T23:36:00.000-07:00

Yeah. I am. Huge dick, right here. Because you know how I was all up in arms about how The Boy was so inconsiderate as to go out of town with his best friends on his pre-planned and reserved annual trip, and then it snowed and woe is me, I hate my life, why doesn't anyone care about me and also God is against me and my baby, waaaaaah?

Um. Turns out I'm a dirty, hissy fit having, rat bastard of a girlfriend.

Also, I suck.

He came home (of course he did) and made it to the appointment (of course he did) and we saw the flick-flick-flicker of The Bean's heartbeat, and he was appropriated shocked and awed. (Also, I think I said "Jesus!" four or five times while we watched. In a Catholic hospital. Because I'm a dick, that's why. God. Pay attention.)

We've told most of the people we work with and I told my oldest sister, who is known for being a little bit of a how-do-you-say twat when it comes to matters of any opinion whatsoever. Every one's taking it amazingly well, aside from the sister going off about how we should wait to tell people until I'm 3 months gone, because we're out of the danger zone then.

I casually reminded her that I lost my first pregnancy at 4 months, when I was CLEARLY out of her little danger zone, so there really is no safe time for me. (Or anyone. I don't imagine that I am unique in this, not for a second.) The worst could happen at any moment, I said. To which she replied "Drop the shitty attitude, blah blah, negative energy, blarby blat," and I think I mumbled something about her eating my ass. Who can say, really.

I'm not being negative. I'm being very positive, actually, more so than I would have thought myself capable. I am, however, being realistic, and I'm not going to pretend that my history is anything other than what it is. I'm not going to pretend I'm not scared. I'm not going to be caught unawares by another failed pregnancy. That being said, I'm actually doing very well with this whole Being Responsible For Another Human Being Staying Alive thing. Because worrying? Will get me nowhere. So I'm trying hard not to.

So to sum up: I'm a dick, but a HAPPY one. That's got to count for something... right?

You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.

2009-04-04T16:15:00.001-07:00

I am angry. I'm trying not to be, but I am. I'm very, very angry. I'm so angry, I'm in tears. I'm SHAKING. I haven't been angry in longer than I can remember, and it's making me physically sick. But oh, the anger. The rage.

My first appointment for The Bean is on Monday, at 0830. The Boy was planning on going. He said it was important, he wanted to be there. I was so relieved; I didn't want to go alone, but more importantly, I wanted to go with him. It's important. This is our child growing inside me, and I'm so scared that something could go wrong. He kept saying, "I have faith in you, I know everything's going to be fine. I know it's going to be ok, and I'll be there." I was so happy to have his support.

The Boy is currently out of town with three of his friends. They went to another state for a hockey game. They left early yesterday morning to get ahead of the blizzard that was coming. (That's called FORESHADOWING.)

The interstate is closed now because of the snow that's piling up across the entire state. The blizzard will continue moving slowly East from here, dumping more and more snow down. The state he traveled to? Is East. The interstate probably will not open until late tomorrow, if it does at all before Monday.

The Boy and his friends are snowed in. They're having a binge drinking, boy-fest party weekend. None of them are even remotely remorseful about this change in plans, so far as I gathered before the left and they were all HOPING to get to extend their weekend with a snow day.

This means that while they're partying I have to go to the appointment alone, which makes a scary, stressful situation INFINITELY MORE scary and stressful. (Given my history, which happens to be chalk full of dead babies. You can't tiptoe through the fucking tulips in my history without tripping over a dead baby.)

I am so, so angry. I'm angry that they were all aware they'd probably get snowed in, and it didn't even occur to him to consider what that would mean in reference to this appointment. The appointment that has been keeping me up at night, the appointment that decides whether we tell people, "Hooray, we're pregnant!" or tell them nothing at all because I can't stand to explain terrible, dead baby-type news to people I care about, so I probably wouldn't ever even mention it. The appointment he said was important to him.

I can't believe this. I can't believe that I texted him, saying "I just realized that if you don't make it home tomorrow, you'll miss the appointment on Monday morning." And suddenly there's complete radio silence -- he's not answering texts anymore. I don't know if he's trying to figure out what to say, or if his phone is glitching out -which it frequently does, stupid Blackberry- or if he's reached the point of PARTY TIME intoxication already that he's not grasping what I'm saying. (Don't get me wrong, he isn't a heavy or habitual drinker. It's just that this is their annual trip out of town, and they hit it very hard when they go places, as do all of my friends. We like to do her up right.)

I don't know.

I just know that I'm angry, and I'm hurt, and I'm scared. And did I mention I'm angry? Because I am.

I don't care if he makes it to another appointment... I just really needed him there for this one. It was important... He even said, didn't he, he even said that it was? And now he's put himself in a position where it's impossible for him to do what he said he would do.

I swing back and forth between wanting to scalp him for being thoughtless and putting me in the position to be MORE scared and MORE stressed, and just being so sad because he's not that guy so how could he be that guy this time?

God damn it.

Neat.

2009-04-01T03:35:00.000-07:00

Even if I wasn't pregnant, I'm pretty sure the mixed smell of egg rolls, pizza and Frito's would make me fucking sick.

Yeah. Pretty sure.

It smells like a mall food court in here. In the 80's. (I don't know why the 80's. Because they're the most offensive time period I can think of right now, I guess.)

Just so we all have an accurate assignment of blame for this stinktastrophe:

The Boy made egg rolls for dinner.
I had pizza 4 hours ago.
My socks smell like chili cheese Frito's. (Stop looking at me like that. I said my socks, not my feet.)

Add to the stink swirling all around my nose space the fact that I'm so tired I'm honestly having a problem keeping my eyes open. The Boy mentioned earlier that I was typing to him, therefore he must be keeping me awake, huzzah! I then reminded him that I'm pretty sure I could still type circles around him in my sleep. Un-huzzah!

I would give the big toe on my left foot to be able to sleep for like, 12 hours. That would rock. I would be eternally grateful for that... To whom it may concern, or whatever.

And I just bet that if I were asleep, I wouldn't feel like I'm forgetting something (Super fucking power bangs and my Trapper Keeper) or like the cloying stench is going to crawl down my throat, become solid and CHOKE ME.

Edited to add: Dude, I just re-read this post right now, a couple of days later, and that bit about the power bangs and Trapper Keeper? I have no fucking idea what I was talking about. I TOLD you I was tired. Apparently, I babble like my booze besotted Aunt Beulah when I'm over exhausted. Bygones.

Well, shit.

2009-03-31T00:54:00.001-07:00

Either I'm getting the flu, or I spoke too soon on that whole 'morning sickness' thing.

I feel... strange. Weak, shaky, dizzy, nauseous. None of them badly enough to feel TERRIBLE, but all of them enough to feel decidedly... less than perfect. And only once in a while. Maybe 30-60% of the time, not always.

I've told people that I would gladly be sick every day for the rest of my life, just so long as this baby is born healthy. And I mean that with everything inside of me.

However. I think I may have been slightly hasty, because, see... I fucking HATE being sick. Like, a lot. You could probably light me on fire and kick me down a dry well, and I feel pretty safe in saying that I wouldn't hate THAT as much as I hate being sick.

So... It starts, I guess. This is it, starting.

I'm actually kind of (read: really) excited... Most of the time I don't feel any differently. So I like that I'm starting to feel SOMETHING, at least. Even if it is sick. It's something to tell me that I'm changing, that there's actually someone in there.

I just want my baby to be okay. I'll be sick, if that's what it means. I don't care. (...says the girl that's only experiencing a comparitive hint of nausea at this point, some weakness, forgetfulness, moodiness. Wait until this freak show swings into high gear. Pretty sure the tune will be different then.)

It's starting.

Curious.

2009-03-25T23:18:00.000-07:00

My hands smell like buttered popcorn. I haven't eaten popcorn in weeks.

Curious that I wouldn't remember touching something that would cause this.

(Only if you don't consider the fact that most days, I don't remember if I put deodorant or underwear on, and have no fewer than THREE keys to my apartment hidden outside the front door because I sometimes forget mine inside and can't always remember where one or the other is outside...)

Maybe I've started blacking out and time traveling.

Because that's the only logical explanation.

And then my poop turned green.

2009-03-25T18:26:00.000-07:00

Seriously, I don't know if it's the hormones or what, but I have realized recently just how lucky I am for my life. I am so thankful, so amazed... I just can't believe this is real.

It's like I opened my eyes one morning and the cobwebs were gone, the shadows were shriveled into the corners where they belonged and I could finally (finally!) see the light shining.

Then, a parade of dwarfs came by and carried me on one of those litter things like Cleopatra, away to a spa city in the jungle, peopled only by naked men with oily fetishes. Big, strong, oily, naked men with...

Did you know pregnancy makes you horny? Totally. It does. Just FYI.

Changing gears: No morning sickness to speak of yet...(HUZZAH! Woot! ...yeah, no, I totally get that I just jinxed the good goddamn out of myself. Shut up. I live on the edge.) Which, okay, I know may be contributing to my happiness. I mean, I feel kind of urpy when I need to eat, or when I smell certain things, or when I get really riled up, but so far I've managed not to puke out my eye holes and that, my friends, is chalking one up for the good guys.

Jesus, I'm so happy I'm making myself sick.

It's real, it's really real. The floor isn't going to fall out, this is really happening.

Holy shit.

I Rise.

2009-03-19T14:32:00.000-07:00

People are going to want explanations from us, they're going to demand why's and how's and what were you thinking's, they're going to be angry because it's not what they would do and how could you do something so differently? People will call us irresponsible and reckless, they will levy judgement and advice and say we owe some kind of justification for all of this. They will say that we have a debt of knowledge and they will demand that we pay.

To steal a page from my friend, Dave O'Connell, "We know it is futile to explain things... I can give you an answer, but I won't believe in it. I can give you something to believe in, if that's what you want."

I could give them pretty answers, wrap the answers up with pretty excuses, but I wouldn't believe it. I could open my mouth and let the apologies fall out, but they would be lies because I refuse to be sorry for this. I refuse to bow my head to appease their sense of outrage; when my hair fell forward, it would only be hiding my smile.

I won't for one minute be sorry for bringing my child into the world. My child. I'm some body's mother, as of right now. Eight months from now, I'll be able to look that person in the eye and know that I never regretted or was ashamed of him because today? Today my job starts. Today I begin protecting that person, and the first thing I will protect him against is myself. I will not allow myself to be sorry for his life. (How could I be sorry? How? Why would they want me to be?) I am afraid, so afraid... But I will not be ashamed. I will not make excuses or explanations. I don't know how this happened, I didn't think it would. But it has, and I won't undo it, and so we must move forward. Together, the both of us. The three of us, if the universe is kind.

I know we are going down the same path so many people have gone down before us, only we're moving along it in our own way. I know this will be offensive to some people, and I'm sorry for that. I don't want to distress anyone. I know it can be alarming when people are unrepentant under extreme scrutiny and pressure, and I feel badly that I will be the cause for that alarm.

I hate it for them. But I love it for me.

Still I Rise
by Maya Angelou
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise

I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise
I rise
I rise.

....

2009-03-06T20:25:00.000-08:00

I was doing good, feeling good. Taking care of myself, happier than I've ever been or imagined I could be.

Then someone came along and kicked the box with all of the demons inside.

Now they're all screaming.

And I can't make them stop. I can't block them out. They're so loud that I can feel them; I want to scratch out my fucking eyes. Ugly, stupid, fat, disgusting, all on a loop in my head, circling the drain and scrambling for purchase and I can't stand it, I can't fucking stand it.

I know that I'll learn to ignore them again, until they grow tired and quiet. I know I'll forget that they're there again, like I always do. I know I will, and yet... This feeling, while I'm feeling it, is eternal and infinite and immesurable. I can't see or even imagine the end of it.

I hate myself so much and I don't like to be reminded... I don't like this. I don't like this at all.

Meme mememeeeee....

2009-03-05T22:25:00.000-08:00

01. Eyeliner or Mascara? Both usually. If not mascara, at least eye liner. Brown, not black, because I rub under my eyes a lot and don't really need the literal raccoon look.

02.Louis vuttion or dooney & burke? Suck my what now..?

03.American eagle or hollister? *cringe* neither... AE, I guess, if I have to pick, although I guess I don't know the difference... Is there a difference? I'm confused. It all looks the same.

04.Pumps or flats? I REALLY like heals. A lot. (Not that I wear them.) Flats make my feet look like chubby little piggies. Not in a cute way. In a Silence of the Lambs way. Being a Bohunk sucks sometimes.

05. Skirts or pants? Jeans. My ass, she does not like the skirts.

06.Socks or leggings? Socks, but leggings are cute if they're patterned or whatever. (Not that I've ever worn them.) I'm just sayin.

07. Hoodies or jackets? I have like, 36 hoodies. Seriously. It's a sickness. And if loving them is wrong, I don't wanna be right.

08. Heels or sneakers? I don't have sneakers. I have boots. Big, black boots. Or wool lined boots. Or calf-height boots. No sneakers, not really. I have climbing shoes- does that count? No? Then eat my ass.

09.Straight or curly hair? My hair's straight, but I like it curled. Apparently, it looks hot.

10. Hoop or dangling earrings? I really wish I could wear earrings. I think that might help make me more girly, and that's just SO IMPORTANT TO ME. But I can't... Unless I wear those big granny clip-on ones, which... no. Just, no. But also? HELL FUCKING YES.

11. Side bangs or one length? I rock the side bangs. That's right. I'm out and proud. Or maybe it's because my cow lick won't allow for the straight-across look. Nor would my giant forehead be pleased with it. Nor would YOU.

12.Gemma ward or adriana lima? I like waffles.

13.White or black? Black. I wish I could wear white, but I stain the hell out of it. I'm REALLY CLUMSY. Like, REALLY. So most of my clothing is black. I'd say 90% of it, no joke. Not because I'm depressed or anything -- I'm really not! And I don't think I'm cool (But who are we kidding?) I just can't be trusted with light colors for more than .58 seconds. They don't make bleach strong enough to undo the messes I make.

14. Victoria's secret or bath and body works? Vicky's! Yay! I love me some trashy, overpriced pantaloons! But I have this body wash from B&BW, and it's called "Need a Margarita?" and YES, YES I DO. But also? It smells AWESOME.

15.Smoothies or latte? Smoothies, only if they're made with real tea or yogurt and real fruit.

16. Diet or regular sodas? Neither these days. Ba humbug. Next thing you know, I won't be drinking liquor either. (HAHAHAHA! HAHA! OH, HAHAHA! HEEEE! That was funny, huh?! HAHAHAHAHAHA!)

17.Water or daiquiris? Water... I'm not much into froofy drinks. I bet they taste good, though. They sure look pretty, and they cost more than my whiskey, so they'd better taste like a koala just crapped a rainbow in your mouth, otherwise you're getting SCREWED, my friend.

18. Pearls or diamonds? Pearls, if I have to choose. I like pearls. And they come from alive things, which means there can always be more!

19. Vintage or boho? BOHO, BABY! Although if I manage to pull it off, it's a total accident. Also, vintage is cool. But not this recent shit -- the 80s are NOT VINTAGE, GD IT! Stop bringing them back! They're dead and rotten and they stink like corpse, so stop it! HATE THE 80s!

20.Marykate or Ashley Olsen? I don't really know the difference at all. Which one isn't anorexic? Wait... Why are you laughing?

21. Lindsay or Hilary? ...What? Like for office? Who are these people?

22.Ipod or cell phone? I have both but I like my cell phone. A lot. But if it was an iPhone I'd make babies with it. Somehow. Moral of the story: I'm a lady of loose virtue. Huzzah.

23. Friends or family? My friends ARE my family. So it's all the same to me.

24.Lip gloss or lip stick? Neither. Can't stand stuff on my lips. Not even chap stick.

25.Manicure or pedicures? Neither.

26. M.A.C or sephora? *cry* I don't know what you MEAN!

27.Tank tops or beaters? Tank tops. I'm a tomboy, not a lesbian.

28.Tiffany or Chanel? Neither.

29.Love or peace? BOTH.

30.Sunglasses or purses? Sunglasses.

X what you have:
[ X] an ipod/mp3.
[ ] a tiffany's bracelet or necklace.
[ ] a Louis vuttion purse.
[ X] a computer. (Kind of. If you can call it that. PILE OF SHIT.)
[ X] a cd player.
[ x] a stereo. (It's LOUD.)
[ ] a spice girl cd. (I used to...)
[ ] a cosmo girl magazine.or regular Cosmo (WTF for?)
[ X] a teddy bear.
[ ] a build a bear. (THOSE FUCKING THINGS ARE CREEPY!)
[ ] an American eagle purse.
[ ] hollister jeans.
[x ] a hot topic shirt. (I'm sure I do.)
[ X] a cell phone.
[ ] an aeropostale shirt. (Secret? I don't even know how to pronounce that.)
[ ] a big screen TV.
[ ] the mean girls dvd.
[ X] a TV in my room. (It doesn't work. I mean it does, but it's old, so it really doesn't because technology is a bitch.)
[ x] a big bed. (YAY!)
[ X] a brother or sister.
[ x] a diamond ring. (Somewhere. Ew.)
[x ] a pearl necklace. (I'm totally not going to be a perv here, YOU'RE WELCOME.)
[ ] a prom dress. (Never went.)
[ X] a book. (Literally HUNDREDS.)
[ X] a myspace
[ ] curious perfume. (Is that like, "Your perfume is curious. It smells of cabbage." or "CURIOUS brand perfume"? Because NO to both.)
[ ] g-unit sneakers.
[ X] a black shirt. (Again, HUNDREDS. I exaggerate here, but barely. See above.)
[ ] a clique (They prefer to be called "My Posse. BITCHES.")

What I want. (Why I don't have it.)

2009-02-26T18:43:00.000-08:00

-Burgundy walls in my kitchen. Well, at least ONE burgundy wall in my kitchen. (I rent, and repainting when I move seems like a serious pain in the ass. Not that I'm thinking of moving any time soon, so I don't know why the consequences have even occurred to me, so maybe I'll call my land lord and ask if painting's ok. Wait. I hate him. So maybe I'll just paint and deal with the fallout later. Because that's how I roll.)

-Blue walls in my bedroom. Like, a sage blue. It would match my blankets... I love my blankets. (My bedroom walls are kind of huge. I don't like to do stuff that makes me move at all, and I'd have to move a lot to paint my walls. I also don't like to do home-improvement kind of shit, but I've been feeling really homey lately, so maybe I'll take a whack at her. However, my bedroom is pretty good sized, and that would be a lot of work, and like I said: I'm lazy. OBV.)

-More pillows on my couch. (I haven't been to the store on my bi-yearly "Going to buy tons of shit I don't need for myself and the pets" spree, yet. Also, the store is like ALL THE WAY OVER THERE, and I'm right here, and GOD that means I have to get into my car and then fucking GO there, and that's a pain in the ass because then you have to deal with people, and I sort of hate people. I want pillows, not people. It's all a big cluster fuck of useless shit aimed at keeping me away from what I want! Maybe I'll order them on line. *gasp* Sweet Jesus, that's actually never occurred to me. I could do that right now! But if I do it, I can't procrastinate and whine about my uncomfortable couch anymore, and speaking of procrastination fuck I need to do my taxes. Whoa. Oops. Where am I? Where are my pants?)

-More pictures on the walls. (I would need to print them off, which means I'd need to take my memory stick in to the Walmarts to use that machine thing, and I don't know how to use it. Also, it looks kind of time consuming, and I have like 700 pictures on my stick because I've been putting this off for like, a WHILE. I don't like to do things I've been trying not to do, because it's the principal of the thing. I also don't like things I don't understand --like shady fucking picture machine things-- because I'm a small-minded bigot, or things that take up time. So I'm pretty sure I'd really HATE the whole process of actually getting pictures developed because hello, could it BE more time consuming or foreign to me? I don't think so. Not unless the machine spoke German and wanted to teach me how to knit, because holy shit, that's the stuff nightmares are made of.)

-A hair cut. (I work too much to keep regular appointments. Scratch that. I work so much that when I'm off, I'm DEAD, and so I am UNABLE to keep appointments on account of not being alive. Also, I really like what my hair is doing about every three days, where it looks all long and wild and shit. I look like a jungle person, and that's kind of totally cool by me. And one of the guys I work with is all, "Don't cut your hair. Long hair is sexy." And I was like, "I know, right. Especially when it gets stuck in your mouth, or your eyes, or in your underwear. Spank my ass and call me Jezebel.")

-New shoes. (I don't like shoes, and I don't know why people should have so many of them. At least, that is, until I get onto Zappo's and then I'm all, "Oh damn, I NEED those five-inch, electric TEAL stilettos, they'll go with everything I own! The gold filigree just makes them more versatile! I must have them right goddamn now!" Then I close the window because I come off as unstable enough without wearing those shoes with my jeans and hoodies and doing my pimp strut down the block thinking I look GOOD.)

-A cigarette. (I just quit. Because I obviously hate myself and everyone around me, and would like to see us all dead at the bottom of the icy, icy river. I could not have picked a more stupid time to quit. I'm constantly second-guessing myself because there isn't really a REASON behind me quitting, other than the fact that I've gotten to the point where doing something willfully ignorant that's really bad for my health makes me feel STUPID. Not that I have a problem being stupid - I rather like it. Much like I enjoy smoking. I REALLY enjoy smoking. It makes me happy, and I like to do it. I would like to do it right fucking now, in fact. Amen.)

-A cat. (I haven't adopted a cat because before oh, RIGHT NOW, it didn't seem like a good idea, because of my dog and how super excited she is about everything... I was kind of scared she'd try to love on a cat and accidentally break it's spine... Well, she's suddenly mellowed considerably, and I saw her with my sister's cat not too long ago and it was made pretty obvious that she's not going to screw with any self respecting puss. However, I haven't adopted one because right now I'm kind of concerned that I would neglect it. Not that you can neglect a cat unless you're really cruel, or headless, because they're so independent, and I wouldn't do that intentionally anyway. It's just that I suddenly find myself afraid that everything relying on me is going to DIE. Huh. I can't imagine where that fear has come from, Ihatemyfuckingdad, how very CURIOUS. Perhaps I should delve more deeply into this issue. And get a goddamn cat already.)

I'm almost a dude.

2009-02-25T02:56:00.000-08:00

Things I don't know how to do, which should apparently be instinctive because

I have a vagina:

1. Curl my hair. I can't do it, I don't know why I would do it, and I don't have any desire to learn how to do it. Me + Hot objects + Prolonged exposure to flammable material (like HAIR) = Greek fucking tragedy. I'm not positive, but I'm reasonably sure that my head would go up like a Tiki torch and this little carnival of horrors could only end in tears.

2. Shop for shoes. Why in the hell are we supposed to need so MANY of them...?

3. Bake. I'm not even kidding- I'm absolutely, stone-cold terrified of flour. I mean, I don't think it's going to hurt me (necessarily) but I'm not about to take my chances. It's a texture thing, and if you try to make me touch it I'll make you wish for death, I swear to god.

4. Sell or buy JUNK. Don't invite me to your Avon parties, don't try to sell me wicker fucking baskets. Don't bring your catalogs of cheap and worthless crap anywhere near me, or I'll use my flaming mane to ignite it. Fuck away off with that stuff. I have no use for lotion that costs $67.40 and uses goat placenta to burn my skin off, or nesting baskets that can tuck right under my couch. That's where my dog squeezes her big ass, you think I need her under there where I can't reach her, chewing up a hundred bucks worth of ugly ass baskets? I don't care if they wash my socks for me, I don't want them and they aren't worth it, so SHUT UP.

5. Laugh delicately. I sound like a trucker when I laugh. Don't judge me.

Writing, meet The Wall. Now get it on.

2009-02-18T20:25:00.000-08:00

I will see the shadow behind his eyes, a darkness waiting to creep in and steal his breath away like a thief in the night. I know there is no light bright enough to keep it away, and yet I want to set the world on fire. I feel like failing to strike the match is failing to do my part to keep him alive, even though I know that in the end I would be left standing in a pile of rubble and ashes, and he would still be gone anyway.

I know there is nothing I can do.

Already, I'm frustrated at the idea of having to listen to the same stories I've heard a hundred times, the same anticdotes and tired jokes, the same intonations, the same questions. All of this was the soundtrack to my childhood, and while it seemed novel and indearing then, the older I get the more I realize that it is on a constant repeating loop, and I resent having to hear it all again. I want him to say something more, to delve deeper into himself and show it to me now because he may not have another chance. I want more from him than the same tired show I always get.

I feel guilty for my preemptive frustration because I know this may be the last time I hear these things. I know I should take this as an opportunity to revisit happier times, and yet all of the anger I feel toward his sickness and the fact that he's dying has to go somewhere, doesn't it? It has to be directed at something. Ideally, I would not feel this way. If I were the person I wish I was, I would not be frustrated or angry or anxious at all. I would stand against this wave that is coming, and I would hold my ground for myself and for him.

I'm not that person. I'm not calm or together, I'm not strong or independant or brave.

I'm angry that he's sick- he's done this to himself, to an extent, and it infuriates me. Did he never think ahead to what would happen? Did he never realize the gamble he was taking, and that eventually he was bound to lose? Did he not care enough about us to at least make a phoned-in effort to change the way he is and the things he does, did he not want to be here for us for longer? Did he not realize that he would orphan his daughters by constantly and consistently disregarding the advice of every medical professional to cross his path? I'm angry that I have to mourn him, that I have to be afraid to see him now, and that it's going to launch me right back to when my mother died.

I hate him for making me go back there. It fills me with the kind of anxiety and anger that I thought was well behind me. That wound is by no means fresh, it has healed over, but beneath the surface it festers. I do not want to see it torn open again, I would do anything in the world not to feel those things again, and yet there is nothing in the world I can do. I literally, physically shake at the thought of it- those weeks and months are a black, churning mass in my mind, bursts of pain radiating out and away. I don't want to go back there, I don't want to see him there with me.

I will see in him the ghost of the father I knew as a child. I will see the ghost he will become.

I'm not scared anymore; just resigned and tired. I don't want to see my father this way, yet I know that I will. I don't want to be frustrated with him, yet I can feel it bubbling inside of me, just a hint of the roiling, raging storm that is to come. I don't want to be angry, but it's easier than feeling my heart break.

I know that when I see him, I will be crushed. I know that these harder, more defensive emotions are my stupid way of trying to brace myself against the pain that is coming. Still, I feel so unprepared that it's almost laughable.

The only thing making it possible for me to attempt this trip down memory lane is that I won't be doing it alone. I will have someone to hold my hand, someone I care very much about, and he will help me hold it together when I feel my heart breaking again. He will calm me enough to listen. And there under all of this anger and pain and frustration and rage, there is a soft, silken, soothing voice.

Breathe, baby.

I'm trying. I am trying so hard.

I shook me all night long.

2009-02-14T17:22:00.000-08:00

Have you ever woken up from a dream where you were a roady for a metal band, only to find that you've been (and still are) playing your leg like an electric guitar in your sleep?

Yeah. Me either. That'd be weird.

Puff paint and Hanes MY way.

2009-02-11T23:19:00.000-08:00

What in the hell is wrong with me, that I can't trust another person? Why do I always think I'm going to be tricked out onto a limb only to realize my company is tying himself to the trunk and sharpening his saw?

Jesus Christ. It's not that I'm being abandoned, it's that I'm shoving people away. Who the hell would want to be with someone that's figuratively wedging their foot into your crotch, shoving and whining, "Just gooooo then, GAAAAWD-UH!"

I need to make myself a T-shirt that says "Who the Hell Do I Think I Am?"

So Tired.

2009-02-10T20:58:00.000-08:00

When a person asks you to get into a car and drive 7 hours with her, because her father is very sick and in a hospital in another state and she needs you, the ideal answer would be, "Absolutely. I love you. Let's go." Then the clouds would part, the sun would shine and you'd hold hands and skip down the road, knowing that the situation would be rendered tollerable by your mutual support and love. Bluebirds would serenade, squirrels would proceed, and everything would be a little bit closer to perfect.

The ideal answer would absolutely fucking not be, "I might have something to do that matters more, but I don't have a problem going along if it's convenient to me."

The above should most certainly be avoided if the one asking for help already has pride and control and trust issues. In fact, the above might cause the asker's stomach lining to become inflamed with acid and pure liquid rage. On top of the indigestion, uttering that phrase would beckon forth from the very bowels of hell every mutant demon known to man or mythology. Bats would swarm, skies would darken, children would shriek in horror, and everything in the world would shrivel, turn black and fucking DIE.

I'm just saying. Just making random, logical, very calm conversation over here.

Does anyone have some TUMS?

I'm just shocked. I'm shocked that I thought I could impose this kind of burden on a new relationship. I'm shocked that I didn't anticipate this kind of reaction. I'm shocked that I had the nerve/stupidity to ask this of him in the first place. They say that people and psyches morph under stress, and I can see that's true in this case. I need help and I know it, and something inside me has overridden my natural inclination to shut the fuck up and make due. I'm shocked that, while I haven't been turned down, it feels like I have and it's crushing me. I didn't think we were at the crushing stage of things just yet.

I just don't know how much plainer I can be right now. I don't know how to make myself more clear. I NEED FUCKING HELP. I need help. Help me, fucking HELP ME, for god's sake, HELP me. I am not even remotely able to deal with my father being sick right now, not even slightly. I haven't recovered from watching my mother die, I cannot DO this alone, and I don't know how else to ask for help. I don't know how to find my voice out there the way I can here, I don't know how to vocalize it. Here, it's easy. Here, I can say,

I'm traumatized. I'm so fucking broken. I admit it, I've been in serious denial since my mom died. No one was expecting the cancer, and then to watch her waste so quickly... it ate my soul. It killed me. She was only sick for 4 months, then she died and right after that I lost my baby. My body betrayed me and reacted to the stress of my mother's death by terminating the pretnancy. I lost everything at once. I never coped, I never had the courage to deal with any of it, and even though I'm doing better now and the echoing darkness inside of me is starting to fill up again, I sill don't know how to deal with any of what happened.

I know it doesn't usually seem like there's anything wrong. I know I seem independent and happy and like I'm doing well. I know that you'd never know anything was amiss to look at me. I know all of this, I kill myself trying to keep it all in the air, but I'm saying right now: it's all a lie. I need help, at least right now, please help me with this. It's too much, it's too big, and I need you.

I can't go down there and see him in the hospital, or out of the hospital but dying anyway. I know I'll look at him and see her;I can't do it alone and I need help. Please help me.

Out there, out in the real world? I can't say those things. They won't come out of my mouth. He has a good reason for needing to stay here, if he does. I know that. He's a good man, and I understand his motives. But I'm tired of being understanding, I'm tired of putting my head down and shouldering through because there's no other option, and I'm tired of being scared.

I'm so tired.

From whence I came....ish.

2009-02-09T17:47:00.000-08:00

My father is sick. He's very sick and in the hospital an entire state away. I'm freaking my fucking shit. Of course I am, he's my father. Well... That is, I mean, I was raised with him as my father, but it's possible that he isn't. Biologically speaking. Because I wasn't born with flippers.

Err... Allow me to 'splain: My father was born a Thalidomide baby. Now, if your only reference for that term comes from "We Didn't Start the Fire," you may not be aware of what it actually means, so I'll tell you. I love to share.

Thalidomide is a sedative-hypnotic and multipe pyeloma medication. It was developed by a German pharmaceutical company and sold from 1957 to 1961 after inadequate tests were performed to assess safety. The drug is a potent teratogen in rabbits and (this will become important in just a second) PRIMATES including HUMANS: this means that severe birth defects may result if the drug is taken during pregnancy.

You see where I'm going with this. I know you do. Don't you? Fine, then let me quote from my good friend, Wikipedia, to spell it out:

Thalidomide was chiefly perscribed to pregnant women as a drug to combat morning sickness and help them sleep. Approximately 10,000 children in Africa and Europe were born with severe malformities, because their mothers had taken the drug while gestating. The impact of the drug was much smaller because FDA-approval was denied here, with approximately 17 babies born bearing its effects.

My father was one of thethose babies.

What the fuck are the odds, huh.

SO. When Thalidomide babies grow up into real people and have little squirts of their own, those babies are (GENERALLY) born with defects as well, because the genetic structure of the parent has been significantly compromised by the drug. For example: my father was born with a deformed right arm being his major defect. My older sister was born with severely clubbed legs, six fingers on each hand and six toes on each foot. Both of them were incredibly lucky, given the horrific extent of some defects children were born with (no faces, no spines, fused legs, appendages coming out of odd places, etc.)

Again, I'll mention: I was born without any physical defects. It is possible, of course, that my father's genes were not damaged enough to pass on to me in a noticable way; however, looking at my sister, that argument isn't worth the powder it'd take to blow it to hell because hello, extra toes, how are you?

Not that any of this REALLY matters even a LITTLE bit, because as I mentioned: He is my father. I was raised with him as my father, so it doesn't matter that my incredible sister may not be mine entirely, or that the drug his mother was given by a doctor without scruples may have served to further weaken his heart (on top of a long family history of heart disease and a number of other health problems and lifestyle choices,) or that he and I may not share genetic proof that we're related. What matters is that my father is sick and he's in a hospital in another state.

Oh yeah, and did I mention, I'm freaking my shit?

Dude.

2009-02-08T19:21:00.000-08:00

I just went to the door to pay the pizza man. I always inclue a handsome tip because hey, I was obviously too lazy to pull myself out of the ass groove in my couch to go and get the artery-clogging sexiness that you were so kind to ferry to my door, so here's a fiver, and you have a nice night, Sport.

I opened the door with a smile, and as we're exchanging food for money he goes, "Wow. You've got a huge apetite." And then he snickered.

Yeah. Thanks. I hope you enjoy never getting tipped at this address again, jerkwad.

Also, Mister I'm-middle-aged-and-passing-a-heaping-helping-of-judgement-to-help-your-greasy-food-go-down, let me remind you: You're middle aged and delivering pizza while wearing elasic-wasted sweat pants with a curious stain on the crotch. Additionally: I'm an angry stranger. I could have GUNS in here, for Christ's sake, people have been shot for less.

Watch out, the hyena got into the stash. Again.

2009-02-07T18:15:00.000-08:00

I don’t trust myself. This is odd, given that I trust others quickly and completely, and am given to holding those around me to much lower standards than I hold myself. I’m probably very easy on others because I’d secretly like them to be easy on me. Conversely, I don’t believe I deserve a gentle hand. I generally believe that I deserve to feel pain.

(Not physical pain. I bruise like a peach. You’d have to hit me in the hairline so the marks wouldn’t show, and everyone knows that repeated injuries to your brain space cause damage to your thinking parts. My brain st-st-s-stutters enough as it is.)

Or, you know, the first paragraph up there could be complete psycho-babble bullshit. I might just treat others nicely because I’m trying to win their affections with good old-fashioned butt kissing, or because I’m a pansy and don’t have it in me to hold others accountable for their actions, or because I just don’t care enough to impose my standards on those around me because it’s none of my G.D business what they do or how they do it.

You see what I mean. I started this post with a statement about how I don’t trust myself. Then I go and second guess myself ABOUT myself right off the bat.

Why am I not chewing on padded walls? I’m starting to think it’s because the men in white coats have never caught me – so writing about my constant confusion on the internets in front of god and everybody should totally help me maintain my charade.

What’s gotten me going on all of this junk is that lately I’ve found myself faced with some serious aggravation. I’m aggravated because for the first time in my life, I’m happy. At least, my life is finally starting to resemble the picture I’ve always had in my head of what Happy is supposed to look like. The agitated, angry, frustrated feelings surface because now that I’m falling down the rabbit hole into a world I never thought would be available to me, people are popping out of the woodwork to yank me back out.

That’s enough to irk a girl’s tater. My tater? She is irked.

When I was miserable and depressed and having trouble finding the motivation to leave my apartment, everyone was fine with it. No one was overly concerned about me, even though I felt like I was constantly fighting for air and clinging to some last shred of myself by the skin of my teeth. Now that I’m happy it’s like there was a memo put out to every ex boyfriend, disgruntled acquaintance, old boss and angry family member, detailing my sudden lack of and need for MORE BAGGAGE. You got baggage? Bring it here, I’ll take it, my bones are no longer being crushed to dust under the weight of the world! Huzzah!

I’m about to start beating people about the head and face with the nearest blunt object. It’s very frustrating, very disappointing that instead of sharing in or even appreciating my new found happiness, instead people are trying to poke holes in the balloon that contains it.

It's not as if I'm not using the balloon for target practice myself. As I said before: I don't trust myself. I don't know how to be happy, or how to maintain it once I have a grasp on it, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to eff it all up. I don't have the slightest idea what I'm doing, and I don't believe I can keep my balance on the rope I've strung above the Pit of Dispair (Quick, name that movie!) for too long. The anger simmers on because I need all the help I can get. I simply do not know how to do this.

What I do know is that I deserve to be happy, I’ve worked my entire life for it, and I’m going to protect it.

SO! In order to protect my new found glee, I’ve decided to procure some hyenas and get them addicted to PCP. Then I will foster in them a taste for the blood of MINE ENEMIES, and fashion some mean looking body armor for them to clunk around in. Because no one’s going to mess with twacked out hyenas in chainmail, or their cheerfully grinning mistress.

Does anyone know where to find hyenas..?

Getting my toes wet.

2009-01-17T00:30:00.000-08:00

This should probably be one of those introduction-type posts, I suppose, since it's my first here.

So what to say?

I'm neurotic, obsessive, irritating and irritated. I'm twenty-something and full to bursting with angst filled memories and inappropriate, hee-hawing horsey laughter. I over-punctuate and start sentences with "dude," "so," and "and" a lot. I try to be zen about life, but that particular good intention usually goes up in blinding, white hot flames the like of which have rarely been seen outside of stars going nova or the reeking, sweaty depths of hell itself.

Stars don't really flame, come to think of it, but you get the drift.

And that's me. So... Hi.