I Wanna Know

Someone recently very kindly pointed out to me that blogs occasionally contain some personal information about the author and their daily lives. This voyeuristic quality apparently makes it fun to quietly watch them go about their business while getting a peek into their brain.

This of course was a nice but passive aggressive way to let me know that me and my life are not at all present in the things I write.

Sure, occasionally I like to fume over the mindless jaywalker who stepped into oncoming traffic while I was on the road or reveal the horrifying incident at the Chipotle that took place only hours after my young son learned that ladies did in fact have vaginas instead of wieners but for the most part I leave my day-to-day happenings at the doormat when I step over the WordPress threshold.

After so many years of working diligently to not be vulnerable, needy or a pain in somebody elses ass, I’d almost forgotten how brilliant it is to see a person write something stripped down and bare enough that it makes them look completely human.

I’m not exactly sure when vulnerability and truth fell so out of fashion in my mind but there are days when all this autonomous droning about impersonal subjects and flaunting my “independence” gets tedious.

To exert so much energy in opposition to what I really feel at times is exhausting. It’s a struggle that results in exactly what I don’t want.

More isolation.Less warmth.

Since I am slow to absorb the most basic changes in routine, I’ll need to marinate in this sea of change for a few hours before I can produce a worthwhile post on the terrible new development of vagrants shitting in my garage.

Seriously. It’s either a guy without access to indoor plumbing, an urban Yeti or a bear that’s escaped from the zoo.

The Curtains Fell, My Dog Died and My Daughter Got Bell’s Palsy

Despite what you may have heard, the rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

That does NOT mean however that things are going swimmingly over here, in fact we are a fucking mess. And that is putting it mildly.

We’ve been blasted with furious hammer blows from the bad luck mallet.

First, I managed to enter the bad parenting Guinness book after joking with my child that she should stop making that silly face because she looks like she’s got Bell’s Palsy.

 Well guess what?!

She actually does.

Yeah, I know, I know. Good job!

Anyway, we got an extra special surprise when we were informed that we would have to go to neurologists who never have any available appointments and specialists and people who like to stick big needles in your arm to suck out all of your available blood, blah blah blah.

THEN just as we were coming out of that bend in the road our massive, powerful full of life dog just up and died, right out of the blue.
This creature, who had been moving like a freight train hours before he was felled, crumpled in a lifeless heap and stopped responding.

We are destroyed.

Was this dog a huge pain in the ass?

Yes.

Did he knock over children, adults, furniture and lamps?

Yes.

Still, he was gorgeous and sweet and loyal and we miss him horribly.

Sure I know that things like this happen and that we need to keep on keepin on but I find myself without anything silly or bizarre to say to you today.

So I will sum up by telling you that my daughter is on the mend and seems to have none of the terrifying things we imagined might be causing her facial paralysis (phew) and showing you a photo of my slobbery fool of a doggy.

Woof:(

See ya big fella, you will be missed:(

A Girl Really Should Know Her Limitations

I would like to say that my recent meager output was due to an excessively satisfying personal and professional life that left no time for writing this drivel but that would leave out the part where every event sidled right up and sucked balls for the better part of five days.

As a matter of fact since we are being so candid here I’d venture a guess that I’m very close to some sort of midlife existential crisis that needs tending to except  I’m more than likely to let it fester and rot before springing into anything that even remotely resembles action.

If you see me flailing around your neighborhood wearing an overcoat and thermal underwear in the unseasonably warm weather be kind to me and don’t throw things because I’ll probably be back to normal in three to five days and I bruise easily.

Plus you don’t want to explain to put together, capable me that in a fit of distemper you mistook your friend for an unhinged vagrant and tossed potentially lethal projectiles at her. That just makes YOU look like a huge asshole.

Not nice.

We’ll Make It Up As We Go Along

 

Today I’m supposed to miraculously appear in three place within the window of one hour so I’m finding myself taking deep breaths and continuously repeating the phrase “where do you belong?” just to make sure I’m on track.

It’s easy to understand why anti anxiety meds would be beneficial at this juncture to prevent my head from walking right off my shoulders and exploding in the corner .

The whole gang is in transit as I write this in my mind but as soon as we get to stop #1 I am considering authorizing the youngest childs expulsion from the itinerary. The song he is singing about “woodchuck penis” just won’t fly during brunch.

Someone is trying to talk me into extending this bizarre traveling circus for an hour or two by adding a fourth place they would like us to be today, but I’m closing the curtain on this performance for good.

Our little troupe of acrobats and high fliers are burnt out and they need a well deserved rest. Their leader has long forgotten paperwork and important documents piling up in skyscraper type mounds that threaten to fall over and become hopelessly out-of-order. That woman really needs to get it together.

Soon, close friends will be boarding planes for trans Atlantic flights, we will be shaking hands with strangers and welcoming them to DC and suitcases will be zipped up and thrown in the back of cars for yet another road trip.

The Horrifying Incident Involving the Boy, His Mouth, a 44 Minute Wait on Line, The Word Vagina and Fifty Scandalized, Hungry Patrons

Hey, remember me?

Super freewheeling summertime girl with the wind in her hair, not a care in the world and the family that looked like it jumped off the J. Crew end of summer catalog?

 Yeah, well she shriveled up into a ball and fucking vaporized in a puff of smoke this evening while trying to exert what little parental authority she was still clinging to during a mortifying incident at the jam-packed Friendship Heights Chipotle.

The scene opens with a sun-kissed, seemingly relaxed mother and her cute tanned energetic child engaging in playful banter  and games to bide the time at the end of a very long slow-moving line.

Area power outages have taken out the restaurant computer system and they seem to be processing transactions on some sort of Fred Flintstone rock and chisel credit card contraption.

Mother: Sam, get off the ledge, you might fall.

Sam: This line is long and I’m going to cut it. Let’s walk up there and just give the stupid order. This is terrible AND boring.

Mother: I know, but all these people are waiting just like us so that’s not fair.

Sam: Life is not fair. You say that to your kids all the time so I’m saying it to you now. (sing songy voice) Gonna drive my steamroller over all these stupid people and make them flat, then I’m gonna walk right over them and get my rice, la, la, la…

Mother: Sam! That’s not nice. Stop.

Sam: (under breath) It’s what we really need to do. Make pancake people and less line.

Fifteen more agonizing minutes pass with the levels of buffoonery increasing exponentially.

Mother: (sensing danger) Sam, you want me to pick you up?

Sam: (smiling) sure!

Sam: Hey, I can see your boobs from up here!

Mother: Okay, it’s time for me to put you down now.

Sam: (now rolling on the concrete floor and swatting at the bottom of his mothers sundress) Hey! I can see your vagina if I lift up your dress right?  Gavan taught me that girls penises are called vaginas! You have a vagina (then looking around and pointing to the surrounding women) and you have one, and you too. All ladies do!

Mother smashes her hand over Sam’s mouth

Sam: HEY! mrphh, machina, shtop, I CNTBREAFFFF!!!!!!!!

Mother: Shut it or you will NOT get a Mr. Pibb you fucking deviant animal, hiss.

Mother: (to employee) yea, I’d like three chicken…

Sam: VAGINAS!!!!

Mother: Burritos and one..

Sam: Lady vaginas! We want lady vagina on our burritos.

Mother: (covering Sam’s mouth with the iron force of a thousand livid parents) Just give me four burritos!

Employee:(quizzical look, cartoon question mark over head) burritos?

Mother: YES! Four of them, please hurry for the love of Christ!

Sam: (tearing at his mother’s fingers) pah chinas!!!!!

Mother: throwing cash at the checkout girl) QUICKLY! These four and a small Dr. Pibb.

Sam: Mr. Pibb doesn’t have a vagina cause he’s a boy and he’s got a penis. Mom, don’t you wish you could pee standing up?

Mother: no.

Defeated, she leaves the Chipotle with her head hanging in shame and her small son singing a remarkably catchy song about penises and why they are much more fun than vaginas.

Fade to black, end scene.

Things are Not as They Appear.

This Sunday I had myself a true Judas Iscariot moment.

I denied knowing my own children at the grocery store.

Then I stopped after reading that last line and asked myself  “Hey girl who spent her whole life chained to a pew in parochial school! WHO was it now that denied Jesus three times?” “Why YES you moron that would be Peter.”

Judas sounds so much more theatrical though, so I’m keeping it even thought it is not historically accurate.

While waiting patiently in the checkout line my two boys began to act a little squirrely.

They were redirected to the front of the store near the exits brought there by my beleaguered mother who was lacking her usual sharp tongue and was hanging there like a limp dishrag due to a debilitating migraine.

 This means that the boys were running in circles, screaming about having a girlfriend, punching each other, jumping off the bench my mother was passing out on, smashing the video machine with the dollar rentals and accosting the automatic lotto dispenser.

Two über uptight couples with pursed thin lips were starting to shake their heads in disbelief and exchanging disgusted looks with each other at the volume and sheer audacity of the two unruly boys and their comatose caretaker.

“So rude and disrespectful” noted one.

“Why isn’t she doing anything to control them?” asked the other.

Then Il Duce let loose with a rank profanity followed by a roaring hysterical cackle and I watched them gasp with horror.

They were truly disgusted.

“CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT?!” they croaked, looking at me.

I thought for a moment. There were thousands of ways I could go here but I opted for betrayal.

“I know!” I commiserated, as I lugged the rest of my fresh produce onto the belt.

I didn’t feel nearly as bad as I know I should have but it was just so much easier to cut and run regarding knowing this lot than to try to explain them to someone who wouldn’t care.

After scooping my mother up off the bench and driving her back home so she could suffer her mind exploding agony alone on her couch I spoke briefly to the boys about minding their behavior in public. But my pleas fell on deaf ears as they were both fast asleep in the back.

The Cult of Mediocrity

 

I recently watched the Pixar classic The Incredibles for the four hundredth time last week and while the credits were rolling I received an interesting comment from my slightly more observant than usual four-year old. “Why do they celebrate when Dash doesn’t win?” What you might be saying to yourself right now is how many computer animated movies can one woman watch without qualifying as both annoying and juvenile? Answer, threshold about 1000, which I am well past by now. There’s a scene in there that sums up the flick quite nicely in a shiny bow wrapped package.
“When everybody’s special, then no one will be”.
How many times have I found myself cheering on one of my three at a sport they don’t excel at while they fumble around and otherwise destroy what could have been a perfectly good game? How many times have I enthusiastically screamed “good job!” when presented with a jumbled swirling mess that clearly did not represent their best efforts? The depressing answer is far too often.  I’m not one of these soul crushing critics that voice their concerns about the need for improvement in various areas but I might just take it a little too far in the other direction. The proper foundations for massive failure are laid pretty early on in life and the more confident a kid is the better off they probably are in the long run but how much is too much? You can’t start telling your two-year old that his prospects don’t look too good or he’ll be hanging out in front of the 7/11 all day making dubious calls on his prepaid cell phone in no time.

The future.

Perhaps my negative perception of this whole idea of “I’m okay, you’re okay” is colored by the privileges I’ve had. I was smart, not a behavior problem in school and had nice similarly intelligent peers. I was never saddled with large or fine motor issues, dyslexia, crippling shyness, sensory problems or parents that were too busy. I was the center of attention at my home and pampered like a delicate princess with brittle bone syndrome. In other words, I freaking had it all. Sometimes I think I could have benefitted from some real adversity or obstacle I had to find a way to vault over, as it clearly builds character and a real understanding that the world doesn’t always work the way you want it too. I watch my three negotiate difficult and uncomfortable situations every day that would have made me fall completely apart at the same age.  I try to imagine myself subjected to hours of rigorous tutoring and skill building sessions instead of running and playing in my neighborhood after school and know that after drowning in a puddle of my own tears I would have lost all hope and given up. Not my three.  I’m not sure where they inherited their tenacity or never say die attitudes  or why they apply this fierce determination to the most difficult of tasks- instead of say for instance putting on their clothes before school- but it’s not from me. Like the French, when there  appears to be some sort of battle brewing, I raise my white flag and lay down and die. It usually takes an army of motivational speakers and someone pushing me along in a scooter to get me near something even approaching difficult, much less tackle it with unwavering chutzpah.

So, strangely I have managed to do a complete 180 about this whole thing from the beginning of this blog post until now. First I’m all like “hey, we shouldn’t reward people who should be on the short bus for being great when they’re not”. And then I’m all ” I’m a heartless idiot, because my kids have huge issues they have managed to overcome, so they deserve some core confidence building exercises despite not being the best at some things”. Further proof that I have no real concrete ideas of value and that if I ever ran for office my waffling back and forth on issues would lose me the election for sure.