So my experiment has failed and the answer is, no, 1 voice cannot be heard in a crowd of a billion. Pity, really, I was looking forward to some good debate and action-oriented sentiment and a bit if a rally. I'm not that surprised, honestly, zombies are too self-absorbed to listen for that falling tree.
Post Partum evokes a cloud and suffocating and general confusion and fear. Regular misery and sorrow bring about something slightly different - similar to emotions on ADD. Once again I am faced with the fragile reality of my state of mind (or self - as the case may be). For the duration of my working life I have always, when the opportunity existed, taken the last two weeks of the year as vacation, a time to recharge, my summer vacation - since I never can afford to take holiday in the sunshine. I have worked for the same person for 13 of these working years and have always taken this time off. Suddenly, after two months prior approval, five days before my much anticipated vacation is about to begin, I am informed that it is unusual for him to have approved 2 weeks since he feels it's a support hole and feels that I need to warm a seat. Now mind you I have a company supplied blackberry and laptop and am very reachable in the event that something cannot wait for my return. I am, to say the least, devastated.
I have earned the support of my boss over years of hard work, determination and dedication. The only time in my life that I have been a less than stellar employee was during the throes of my post partum suffering. I have worked double time since then, been available 24/7, cancelled vacation days, worked while sick, at 10 pm, during dinner, while I had plans with my daughter...you name it I have bent over front and back to prove that I am and have worth (contrary to what resembled a preformance appraisal during post partum hell). I know the man is busy, but this is no way to treat a valued employee who has earned the time she is entitled to, he has stopped listening to the world around him, become so PC as to be un-PC. After 13 years, wouldn't I have known of a 1 week at a time rule? After 13 years, and 5 years in the same position, wouldn't we have this all worked out by now?
I spent the day in between tears and confusion yesterday. I spent my evening in between anger and deep breaths. I spent my night tossing and turning and generally suffocating and becoming frozen in the tundra of the new American Life. I tuned into some old friends that kept me company in the darkness of my search for me, the death of my father, my education. I wallowed in the comforting place of music and memories. This morning I drove into work with A Perfect Circle at top volume blanking my brain to allow some numbness to cleanse my thoughts. I'm sitting here at my desk with a resentment and scorn for a person I have always respected and valued and a job I used to love. I don't have any more to give.
I'm tired of being sad and unhappy. I'm exhausted to my core. Some days I don't feel like it's worth it, and if it wasn't for my little angel I wouldn't make it to see the dawn. And then I get it. Or think I may. My working problems only began with my pregnancy and have continued since. A friend asked if I am perhaps giving less than I used to or is it obvious that my priority is no longer work. The answer is no, I work harder and longer, but perhaps the flaw is not in my work but in someone else's perception of a working mom. I'm afraid to step here. This is territory that screams danger. Usually I take that step because I like the good old fashion debate, pushing the envelope to remind people to think and use logic and reality to stop being controlled and led blindly, and to make sure that the little person is not stepped on and beaten down. But here...I am most afraid. The implications are serious and the fall out too dangerous for my family that is already one breath away from drowning.
14 December 2010
10 December 2010
Can One Voice be Heard in a Crowd of Billions
I used to laugh or ignore my sisters and friends when they talked about zombies and the recent onslaught of zombie movies and chachkies and whatnots, not to mention the fabulous "How to Survive a Zombie Attack" posters available to all interested parties. Then I begin to think...what a perfect metaphor for what I see has become of the US citizen. And I am not excluded from this generalized statement either.
We are fat and lazy and removed from all sense of the community of earthlings let alone residents of the country. I'm the last person to claim I am patriotic, and this, my friends, has N.O.T.H.I.N.G. to do with patriotizm, but instead a call to empathy and compassion and respect for humankind. Technology has enabled us to remove ourselves from the reality of the human plight and reinforce we are but the cancer of the earth. We can sit behind a screen and keyboard and say, "O yeah, I'm against that" or "I will join you in your cyber-world sit in" and just hit send to donate money or food or goods to those in need. But what this does is remove our soul and consciousness of the darkness that we are creating. We don't realize that the donation is going to our neighbor's house, or that arguement has gotten physical, or that kid just joined a gang because he's afraid of what tomorrow with bring - we turn our heads and go back to our games, and songs, and movies, and virtual world and tune out - we no longer need Leary's Tune Out opiates. We've lost sight of our community and the living breathing web that we live and that when one strand breaks it will affect the entire delicate foundation.
I challenge you to go to that soup kitchen and serve the food, volunteer at an orphanage and spend quality time with the youth of tomorrow, report the pet abuse or spousal abuse or child abuse or rape or car jacking! Connect with your human kind. Stop letting fear and ignorance destroy what has made us unique. This is by no means a Pay it Forward sentiment. This is meant as a lifestyle adjustment - one action, though it can make a difference, must be repeated for a total change to occur: a return to community. We suffer the consequense of our own needs to be special and have something and be someone and appear a certain way...instead all this has done is make us all the same, and useless. I remember my grandmother saying it takes a village to raise a child...and being a new monther I now understand that concept. We have been foolish with our drive to be independent and separate ourselves from our roots, our DNA our history. Humans have made it this far because we worked together and for each other. The further we slip away from what makes us human the more we have become the zombies.
We the people have also lost sight of WE THE PEOPLE. By no means do I single out a president, congress, House, Senate, Commissions, Associations, State, Local...I blame ALL of them. The agenda no longer concerns itself with THE PEOPLE, but a person or group or flippant ideology: a distraction from the important issues. America was built as a new land to include personal, religious, and many other freedoms as a RIGHT, not a luxury. Machiavelli was not invited to this new land...yet I look around and see his Prince everywhere.
I overhear one person say, "O you can't say that or you'll get put on a list," or my favorite, "I wouldn't go and say that...you might make them mad and they'll (insert verb here) and ruin it for the rest of us." WE THE PEOPLE are afraid. We are being governed by fear. We don't need to opiate our masses...although we seem to keep the pharmas in business these days...we are sheep, zombies, fearful little creatures who can't stand up and fight anymore. We sometimes picket and sign petitions and babble to our neighbor...but we don't DO anything. We assume it could be worse or it'll work out somehow or we accept that our fight is meaningless or won't make a difference in the end. We bicker and bumble around in circles always chasing our proverbial tail. We as humankind have devolved while our machinery now houses more intelligence and control and sophistication.
Consider our modern day entertainment and our obsession with "reality" TV, which thankfully is waning from our mainstream channels. We focus on pitting one person against another, glamourizing what should be considered in poor taste, disgusting and disrespectful. We no longer respect anyone including ourselves. We unashamedly cheer on the lowest form of human behavior and then make them role models for the next generation - my apologies to the Snookie and Situation fans. I'm all for sex, drugs and rock n roll, foul language, and pushing the envelope, yet there is a point when we've taken it to an extreme and have set the bar so low that the world sits back and laughs at what should be our shame. People should be free to be who they are; no one should judge based on race, religion, weight, sexual preference or any other difference, therefore, why glamorize the hate of it all.
Our media outlets sensationalize the small stuff and make issue where there should be none. They contribute to the fear mongering of our leaders. We fled the princes and kings and monarchs and oligarchs that behaved in these tyrannical and hypocritical and demoralizing ways - how could we welcome these symbols back into our lives. The News, as it is called, runs ADD segments of horor and misery in a tone that elicits the worst emotional response. No wonder we all have panic anxiety disorder and live in a perpatual state of depression and manic expression. We hear of this shooting and that death and this fire and that accident and this weapon and that funeral and this storm and that economic bomb and this riot and that disease and this loss and that loss and I could go on with every negative imagry available at my disposal. And the happy children who received gifts from Toys for Tots get 15 seconds until we are redirected to the local amber alert. What SHAME. The Media fuels the fear so that we remain puppets and zombies. All the news stations say "exclusive:" All our magazines claim "best results." All our commercials state "may cause serious side effects." Yet we follow like fools, unquestioning, afraid with eyes faced downward.
You ask, "Well do you have any answers or resolutions?" Or you ask, "What what the hell are you actually doing about it then?!" Have you mummbled, "I'm not fat, lazy, a zombie or otherwise." Or maybe you are calling me an idiot or liberal or far something. I choose to call myself me. I don't care if you like me, agree or disagree with me. I just want to know if one voice can be heard in a crowd of billons.
We are fat and lazy and removed from all sense of the community of earthlings let alone residents of the country. I'm the last person to claim I am patriotic, and this, my friends, has N.O.T.H.I.N.G. to do with patriotizm, but instead a call to empathy and compassion and respect for humankind. Technology has enabled us to remove ourselves from the reality of the human plight and reinforce we are but the cancer of the earth. We can sit behind a screen and keyboard and say, "O yeah, I'm against that" or "I will join you in your cyber-world sit in" and just hit send to donate money or food or goods to those in need. But what this does is remove our soul and consciousness of the darkness that we are creating. We don't realize that the donation is going to our neighbor's house, or that arguement has gotten physical, or that kid just joined a gang because he's afraid of what tomorrow with bring - we turn our heads and go back to our games, and songs, and movies, and virtual world and tune out - we no longer need Leary's Tune Out opiates. We've lost sight of our community and the living breathing web that we live and that when one strand breaks it will affect the entire delicate foundation.
I challenge you to go to that soup kitchen and serve the food, volunteer at an orphanage and spend quality time with the youth of tomorrow, report the pet abuse or spousal abuse or child abuse or rape or car jacking! Connect with your human kind. Stop letting fear and ignorance destroy what has made us unique. This is by no means a Pay it Forward sentiment. This is meant as a lifestyle adjustment - one action, though it can make a difference, must be repeated for a total change to occur: a return to community. We suffer the consequense of our own needs to be special and have something and be someone and appear a certain way...instead all this has done is make us all the same, and useless. I remember my grandmother saying it takes a village to raise a child...and being a new monther I now understand that concept. We have been foolish with our drive to be independent and separate ourselves from our roots, our DNA our history. Humans have made it this far because we worked together and for each other. The further we slip away from what makes us human the more we have become the zombies.
We the people have also lost sight of WE THE PEOPLE. By no means do I single out a president, congress, House, Senate, Commissions, Associations, State, Local...I blame ALL of them. The agenda no longer concerns itself with THE PEOPLE, but a person or group or flippant ideology: a distraction from the important issues. America was built as a new land to include personal, religious, and many other freedoms as a RIGHT, not a luxury. Machiavelli was not invited to this new land...yet I look around and see his Prince everywhere.
I overhear one person say, "O you can't say that or you'll get put on a list," or my favorite, "I wouldn't go and say that...you might make them mad and they'll (insert verb here) and ruin it for the rest of us." WE THE PEOPLE are afraid. We are being governed by fear. We don't need to opiate our masses...although we seem to keep the pharmas in business these days...we are sheep, zombies, fearful little creatures who can't stand up and fight anymore. We sometimes picket and sign petitions and babble to our neighbor...but we don't DO anything. We assume it could be worse or it'll work out somehow or we accept that our fight is meaningless or won't make a difference in the end. We bicker and bumble around in circles always chasing our proverbial tail. We as humankind have devolved while our machinery now houses more intelligence and control and sophistication.
Consider our modern day entertainment and our obsession with "reality" TV, which thankfully is waning from our mainstream channels. We focus on pitting one person against another, glamourizing what should be considered in poor taste, disgusting and disrespectful. We no longer respect anyone including ourselves. We unashamedly cheer on the lowest form of human behavior and then make them role models for the next generation - my apologies to the Snookie and Situation fans. I'm all for sex, drugs and rock n roll, foul language, and pushing the envelope, yet there is a point when we've taken it to an extreme and have set the bar so low that the world sits back and laughs at what should be our shame. People should be free to be who they are; no one should judge based on race, religion, weight, sexual preference or any other difference, therefore, why glamorize the hate of it all.
Our media outlets sensationalize the small stuff and make issue where there should be none. They contribute to the fear mongering of our leaders. We fled the princes and kings and monarchs and oligarchs that behaved in these tyrannical and hypocritical and demoralizing ways - how could we welcome these symbols back into our lives. The News, as it is called, runs ADD segments of horor and misery in a tone that elicits the worst emotional response. No wonder we all have panic anxiety disorder and live in a perpatual state of depression and manic expression. We hear of this shooting and that death and this fire and that accident and this weapon and that funeral and this storm and that economic bomb and this riot and that disease and this loss and that loss and I could go on with every negative imagry available at my disposal. And the happy children who received gifts from Toys for Tots get 15 seconds until we are redirected to the local amber alert. What SHAME. The Media fuels the fear so that we remain puppets and zombies. All the news stations say "exclusive:" All our magazines claim "best results." All our commercials state "may cause serious side effects." Yet we follow like fools, unquestioning, afraid with eyes faced downward.
You ask, "Well do you have any answers or resolutions?" Or you ask, "What what the hell are you actually doing about it then?!" Have you mummbled, "I'm not fat, lazy, a zombie or otherwise." Or maybe you are calling me an idiot or liberal or far something. I choose to call myself me. I don't care if you like me, agree or disagree with me. I just want to know if one voice can be heard in a crowd of billons.
08 December 2010
Of Mice and Moors
Romeo and Juliet - star crossed lovers - destined for destruction and misery...no Cinderella tale for them. And I begin contemplate Disney versus Shakespeare.
Both Juliet and Cinderella were high born, and both were banned from their love. Romeo from perhaps the other side of the tracks or the opposing palace, depending on whose interpretation you ascribe, and Prince Charming, ruler of the kingdom. Why does Cinderella live happily ever after, but Juliet suffer death and pain? Is Disney to blame for our perpetual belief that it will all work out in the end or that we will find gold at the end of the rainbow? Was Shakespeare the realist that kept the population in check from run-away fantasies and behavior?
The comparisons and contradictions zip around behind my eyes. I'm not able to focus...so I wonder...am I to be Juliet or Cinderella.
I always tell my husband that if it's not worth fighting for it isn't worth anything at all, and I believe we are worth fighting for. Then he replies that he doesn't believe in fighting for anything, you should just walk away - this coming from a man with some anger issues that have been a source of legal trouble for him in the past - does he even know who he is. There in lies the fundamental difference in our foundations. By nature I am a peacemaker, but when it comes to something I believe in my battle gear comes out. Perhaps I should look to our modern love stories as well if I am going to blame our books and movies on our perceptions...in today's world we always see the guy fighting to win over his lady. We consider this chivalrous and manly and honorable because those that don't always lose. We say this is romance and that is what it's all about. So again we have the venus versus mars syndrome.
It takes 2 to make any relationship work, but not 50/50. A wise person once explained to me that a relationship is 70/30...at any time one person is pulling 70 and the other 30, then at another time it is reversed. So why then do we perpetually expect 50/50...come on now...this has nothing to do with equality. So when trying to maintain the relationship and survive the hurdles life throws does someone throw in the towel instead of pulling their 70 (or 30) percent of the current burden. We all need a hand at some point...and aren't you supposed to be able to rely on your better half?
I'm so tired of the lemons....I hate lemonade. I don't really feel I have the right to complain since there are others far worse off than I and with situations out of a nightmare instead of daily life dredgery. I will allow myself the disappointment and saddness though...I am human. Time to eat an apple or prick my finger or something like that....I'm keeping away from the damned spots because they never end well.
Both Juliet and Cinderella were high born, and both were banned from their love. Romeo from perhaps the other side of the tracks or the opposing palace, depending on whose interpretation you ascribe, and Prince Charming, ruler of the kingdom. Why does Cinderella live happily ever after, but Juliet suffer death and pain? Is Disney to blame for our perpetual belief that it will all work out in the end or that we will find gold at the end of the rainbow? Was Shakespeare the realist that kept the population in check from run-away fantasies and behavior?
The comparisons and contradictions zip around behind my eyes. I'm not able to focus...so I wonder...am I to be Juliet or Cinderella.
I always tell my husband that if it's not worth fighting for it isn't worth anything at all, and I believe we are worth fighting for. Then he replies that he doesn't believe in fighting for anything, you should just walk away - this coming from a man with some anger issues that have been a source of legal trouble for him in the past - does he even know who he is. There in lies the fundamental difference in our foundations. By nature I am a peacemaker, but when it comes to something I believe in my battle gear comes out. Perhaps I should look to our modern love stories as well if I am going to blame our books and movies on our perceptions...in today's world we always see the guy fighting to win over his lady. We consider this chivalrous and manly and honorable because those that don't always lose. We say this is romance and that is what it's all about. So again we have the venus versus mars syndrome.
It takes 2 to make any relationship work, but not 50/50. A wise person once explained to me that a relationship is 70/30...at any time one person is pulling 70 and the other 30, then at another time it is reversed. So why then do we perpetually expect 50/50...come on now...this has nothing to do with equality. So when trying to maintain the relationship and survive the hurdles life throws does someone throw in the towel instead of pulling their 70 (or 30) percent of the current burden. We all need a hand at some point...and aren't you supposed to be able to rely on your better half?
I'm so tired of the lemons....I hate lemonade. I don't really feel I have the right to complain since there are others far worse off than I and with situations out of a nightmare instead of daily life dredgery. I will allow myself the disappointment and saddness though...I am human. Time to eat an apple or prick my finger or something like that....I'm keeping away from the damned spots because they never end well.
Assholeness Part Deux
Today's world is unique and our generation is suffering the consequenses of it's own design. We grew up in the opiated 70s and prosperous 80s and tech revolution. We have access to information and distractions that our grandparents couldn't even dream. We are now the ones raising disrespectful, selfish children and don't take resposibility or accept blame for anything and we pass that onto to the next generation in the process. We behave like spoiled brats that are owed something. Admittedly, I'm guilty of the I've earned it mentality myself. We have no community and we stand up for nothing or only in word, not action. Take, for instance, all our Facebook status adventures...do we believe that we are making a difference just by saying so. We are dumb, stupid, ignorant and arrogant. Our easy lifestyles have made zombies out of us all.
Women are entering the workforce in droves. The unemployment of America has hit everyone, but our men seem to cry poor me...I am man and now I feel emasculated. Some blame their women, some the government, but none stop for a second to ponder their part in this puzzle. We are greedy and selfish as a people. We don't care about anyone, including ourselves. We feast on cakes and wine and must have things, instead of remembering what's important in life...life itself. We can't take things with us. Frankly, we don't even know if there is a place beyond here. Things are fleeting and easy: instant gratification and temporary happiness. The love I have for my daughter can never be described or replaced or explained. The emotions I have for those people who bless my life in many different ways makes the hardships seem bareable.
I cannot take anyone elses blame any longer. I cannot accept anyone elses cranial malfunctions another minute. I cannot carry the world one more breath. I didn't hear Atlas got laid off, and really...you can't outsource his job.
Women are entering the workforce in droves. The unemployment of America has hit everyone, but our men seem to cry poor me...I am man and now I feel emasculated. Some blame their women, some the government, but none stop for a second to ponder their part in this puzzle. We are greedy and selfish as a people. We don't care about anyone, including ourselves. We feast on cakes and wine and must have things, instead of remembering what's important in life...life itself. We can't take things with us. Frankly, we don't even know if there is a place beyond here. Things are fleeting and easy: instant gratification and temporary happiness. The love I have for my daughter can never be described or replaced or explained. The emotions I have for those people who bless my life in many different ways makes the hardships seem bareable.
I cannot take anyone elses blame any longer. I cannot accept anyone elses cranial malfunctions another minute. I cannot carry the world one more breath. I didn't hear Atlas got laid off, and really...you can't outsource his job.
I'm not letting general assholeness ruin my holidays
I'm still here. Long vacation, eh...lost a little in life's labrynth. I could apologize, but really I don't have to. I've wanted so many times to drop in and leave a note...but I found I was too happy to write, too tired to elaborate, too angry to articulate, just not today. Today, however, I feel the need to complain, generally vent, be the ass I am and share my dirty laundry.
When is something unfixable? I mean...at what point do you just decide that it's broken beyond repair or the previous repairs haven't fixed the problem? So you have this old car that you love; it's been your best friend through cold winter snow storms and hot summers to the shore, you've belted out dance tunes and sad songs inside it's metal protection on your crusing getaways, but you dump money into every month...when do you send it to the car graveyard and buy a new one? Or when do you decide it's not even worth donating...just chuck it? I'm a tosser. My parents were pack rats so I keep very little and it has to have extreme sentimental value (even then I can sometimes justify the decluttering). So I apparently don't really know how to translate that to my life outside of "things." So I ponder...I would never toss out my child even though I have to leave the room to catch my breath and count to ten sometimes. Or my pets even with their costs and frustrations when they pee outside the litterbox or scratch up the rug. Or my sisters or mother or my family in general if they are having turmoil that conflicts. Or my friends even if they offend me at times. So why then would I even consider that for my partner?
I keep promises. I make committments firmly and dedicate to their fullfillment - sometimes even to my detriment. I believe in sanctity and partnership. I know in this world we need togetherness just to survive these times and is a fulfilling part of life...at least in my perspective. I don't do anything half hearted either: I do it completely or not at all. I'm fully capable of taking care of myself. I'm willful, strong, independent to a flaw and know that I don't need anyone but myself...but I want to share my life, love, desires, hurts, beliefs with someone. It's not about not wanting to be alone...it's about not being selfish like these times glorify.
I don't glorify much. Least of all the trials of life and family and motherhood. I know these require work and patience and a will to work through the hard times. I believe that if it comes easy it usually isn't worth much. I don't give up either. I fight to the death so to speak. Maybe...maybe that's it. Maybe this battle has been going on longer than I knew and the warriors are spent and littering the field with their rotten carcases and stinking up the place. And now the remaining knights must retreat limping and bleeding and wander nowhereland since their home has been destroyed beyond repair.
PArt of me says that everything is fixable. Do you rebuild or find a new home?
When is something unfixable? I mean...at what point do you just decide that it's broken beyond repair or the previous repairs haven't fixed the problem? So you have this old car that you love; it's been your best friend through cold winter snow storms and hot summers to the shore, you've belted out dance tunes and sad songs inside it's metal protection on your crusing getaways, but you dump money into every month...when do you send it to the car graveyard and buy a new one? Or when do you decide it's not even worth donating...just chuck it? I'm a tosser. My parents were pack rats so I keep very little and it has to have extreme sentimental value (even then I can sometimes justify the decluttering). So I apparently don't really know how to translate that to my life outside of "things." So I ponder...I would never toss out my child even though I have to leave the room to catch my breath and count to ten sometimes. Or my pets even with their costs and frustrations when they pee outside the litterbox or scratch up the rug. Or my sisters or mother or my family in general if they are having turmoil that conflicts. Or my friends even if they offend me at times. So why then would I even consider that for my partner?
I keep promises. I make committments firmly and dedicate to their fullfillment - sometimes even to my detriment. I believe in sanctity and partnership. I know in this world we need togetherness just to survive these times and is a fulfilling part of life...at least in my perspective. I don't do anything half hearted either: I do it completely or not at all. I'm fully capable of taking care of myself. I'm willful, strong, independent to a flaw and know that I don't need anyone but myself...but I want to share my life, love, desires, hurts, beliefs with someone. It's not about not wanting to be alone...it's about not being selfish like these times glorify.
I don't glorify much. Least of all the trials of life and family and motherhood. I know these require work and patience and a will to work through the hard times. I believe that if it comes easy it usually isn't worth much. I don't give up either. I fight to the death so to speak. Maybe...maybe that's it. Maybe this battle has been going on longer than I knew and the warriors are spent and littering the field with their rotten carcases and stinking up the place. And now the remaining knights must retreat limping and bleeding and wander nowhereland since their home has been destroyed beyond repair.
PArt of me says that everything is fixable. Do you rebuild or find a new home?
21 July 2010
The Birth of Zadyra
Today is one of those rarities that involves a level of clarity and motivation that usually fades as quickly as it arrived. I feel strong and energetic and compulsively positive. I'm working on 3.5 hours of sleep with cramps and a migraine, but somehow I will perservere today. I really don't know how or why, but I'm running with it...and most likely scissors.
Once in a while a moment comes along that borders a grande change...ususally (or hopefully) for the better. Sort of like spring cleaning in January. Today I'm there. I want to run without taking a breath before the lights go dim. I posted my FB status as time to dust off some long forgotten dreams...so philosophical of me...so me. And that's it...so ME. OMG OMG OMG OMG....breathe...ME.
The ellusive me or prodigal me or lost me or me on vacation arrived home...for a visit for a while forever...who can tell. I'm enjoying me today. Actually too much since I'm doing everything but working. I want to write and market my two new businesses and network and branch out and enjoy all that I've ever dreamed of in a life for myself. I'm ignoring the fact that I am chained to a desk in an overly-cooled office, albeit having a much needed quiet day at the reigns. I'm taking advantage, and glad for the opportunity.
I'm believing that my two recent ventures may afford me some respite from this dreary world I find myself sulking around. I'm exhausted from worrying and the calls from the debt collectors and working working working and missing out on the lovely moments of my daughter's flying-by first years. I'm putting faith in a possibility...a dream. I want to write, and dance, and teach and share good health. I want to support my family doing what I love and make each day valued for more than another day-in-the-life. I'm at least taking those first steps out of the dream and building a reality.
I gave birth to Zadyra...a long day coming. She's my dancer, my performing artist, my confidence, my ME. I want to hold her and hug her tight and reap the rewards of her arrival quickly without blinking. From my tiny ballerina days to my larger than I should be belly dancing days I've always dreamed of the performance. And I always stopped short of going there. I denied a Philadelphia Ballet hope; I hid from performances at Morraccan restaurants; I did all I could to be hyped, but always failed to follow through. Having accepted the opportunity to teach belly dance at a newly opened dance studio, I found myself following through for the first time. I shook through my first class and a few thereafter. I struggle still to select the correct music, and sometimes the best explaination, but I don't give up. I've begun networking in the community and accepting opportunities for private parties for instruction. The next step will be a real performance...not going to hide, but it will take more time with Zadyra, more lessons in me.
My manic excitement sends me off and onward...o please don't stop...I like this, and I know my family will too.
Once in a while a moment comes along that borders a grande change...ususally (or hopefully) for the better. Sort of like spring cleaning in January. Today I'm there. I want to run without taking a breath before the lights go dim. I posted my FB status as time to dust off some long forgotten dreams...so philosophical of me...so me. And that's it...so ME. OMG OMG OMG OMG....breathe...ME.
The ellusive me or prodigal me or lost me or me on vacation arrived home...for a visit for a while forever...who can tell. I'm enjoying me today. Actually too much since I'm doing everything but working. I want to write and market my two new businesses and network and branch out and enjoy all that I've ever dreamed of in a life for myself. I'm ignoring the fact that I am chained to a desk in an overly-cooled office, albeit having a much needed quiet day at the reigns. I'm taking advantage, and glad for the opportunity.
I'm believing that my two recent ventures may afford me some respite from this dreary world I find myself sulking around. I'm exhausted from worrying and the calls from the debt collectors and working working working and missing out on the lovely moments of my daughter's flying-by first years. I'm putting faith in a possibility...a dream. I want to write, and dance, and teach and share good health. I want to support my family doing what I love and make each day valued for more than another day-in-the-life. I'm at least taking those first steps out of the dream and building a reality.
I gave birth to Zadyra...a long day coming. She's my dancer, my performing artist, my confidence, my ME. I want to hold her and hug her tight and reap the rewards of her arrival quickly without blinking. From my tiny ballerina days to my larger than I should be belly dancing days I've always dreamed of the performance. And I always stopped short of going there. I denied a Philadelphia Ballet hope; I hid from performances at Morraccan restaurants; I did all I could to be hyped, but always failed to follow through. Having accepted the opportunity to teach belly dance at a newly opened dance studio, I found myself following through for the first time. I shook through my first class and a few thereafter. I struggle still to select the correct music, and sometimes the best explaination, but I don't give up. I've begun networking in the community and accepting opportunities for private parties for instruction. The next step will be a real performance...not going to hide, but it will take more time with Zadyra, more lessons in me.
My manic excitement sends me off and onward...o please don't stop...I like this, and I know my family will too.
16 July 2010
The Backwards Alchemist
Thud thud thud gasp thud gasp gasp thud thud thud...my heart pounds in my ears, my chest tight from a shortness of oxygen...pay attention...slow deep, meaningful breaths...slow down...blank the brain...hold it back. Did you know it only takes 1 false drop for the alchemist to taint a moment?
The salt air tickled my nose as the long-familiar scenery sped by on the darkening road. It's been so long: too long, a magical place for me, a home. A spontaneous deal with the devil allowed me a visit to la Mer. O I didn't care. It felt wonderful and exciting and right.
We pulled up to our 24 home at well past bedtime. Anya sensed the change in atmophere and awoke with fascination at this strange place. She wandered and touched and smelled and breathed deeply. Freyja and Bailey wagged and bowed, and learned the place while good friends settled into beers and stories. The trax, second floor deck beconed for company with a rocker and plenty of seating. The house was sparse, but contained all that was needed for a life outside of reality with no maintenance required. I shut the bedroom door behind me and cradled Anya in the full sized bed, hoping she would relax back into slumber. Alas...you know how the story goes...she tossed and turned and grabbed at my locks and kicked my ribs and at 30.75 inches long nearly hogged the expanse of mattress. I put her in the pack n play only to have her wake the other house guests...grunt...long night ahead.
At odd intervals throughout the night sleep was granted, then denied, then granted again. The antique window unit struggled to maintain what should have been a comfortable temperature...I should have put the ceiling fan on. But ahh you could still smell peace in this place. With so little sleep, yet enough, Anya woke at 7:30am with a smile and curiosity; I was only too eager to share with her my secret love.
Pleasantries and coffee filled the early morning as we sat on the balcony watching the sun burn off the dewy air. We have no where to be and no where to go just breath. Anya fascinated by the grainy stuff sticking to her feet and hands, didn't know if she should cry or lick or rub into her hair the small granuals..."that's sand honey, o no don't eat it, do this to shake it off." She waved to the sea gulls that past by and snuggled with the doggies keeping her special company in this strange land. At about that time we ventured off to take Freyja and Bailey on an adventure to Poseindon's realm.
Longport beach: an amusement park for the furry variety. Freyja has never been to the beach, never seen an ocean, and never ran free without blockade fencing; there are far a few locations where Charlie Brown doesn't resonate, "No Dogs Allowed." We all walked onto the small and rugged beach...not quiet what I had envisioned, but should have expected. Rocks and seaweed and dark, muddy sand marked the short beach along the road between here and there. A few other canine vacationers were already on the scene racing in the sand and waves like 5 year olds in Chuckie Cheese. Leashed and testing we laid out a towel and Anya's bucket in a random clear spot wondering if Bailey would show Freyja the joys of a beach dog life.
Within a few breaths Freyja was chomping to get at the foaming white-caps taunting her and chase the wet, smelly playmates on the softness beneath her paws. Rich got brave and disconnected her leash, and we stood there holding in the salty air until we were confident Freyja had found utter pleasure. She sprinted and chased and ran laps and bound into the rough sea. She played tag and catch and bounced and laughed as only a dog could. She was her old self, chasing Bailey around the magical island. Anya was tickled to see so many doggies in one place. Some greeted her with licks and nudges, but mostly they ignored her for the overwhelming fancy of the sea. After an hour of non stop movement univited guests swarmed the beach at Longport, inflicting misery on all variety of life. They were here and there and merciless. Green Heads, the dreaded mascot of the Jersey Shore...and hungry. I kept Anya in movement and bore their mealtime pain. In the water, outside the water...swatting and ouching. Soon the others were doing the same dance as I and the beach quickly cleared. Freyja and Bailey laid down in the back exhausted and gratful for the beach dog adventure.
Time for pizza lunch and naps. It seemed like we had already enjoyed a full day that was barely half begun.
Perfect Day part two was for the 2 leggers. Towels and blakets and chairs and water bottles and snacks and O my packed into bags and the car. The sun had gotten hot and the sky clear in this after noon hour. I hadn't been to a Sea Isle beach since my teens: that was too long ago now. I vaguely remembered the difference from Wildwood Crest and the beach home of my adult years...as foreign as Sea Isle seemed, the more like home it felt. I carried Anya through the hotest white sand at the entry point while the boys carried everything to our landing space. Anya was overstimulated by all the people and colorful blankes and umbrellas and playing, screaming children of all ages. She looked outward at the expanse of the sea and smiled...my child the pisces, just like her mother.
We found a spot before the waterline, but beyond the hot dry sand....perfect. We set up camp quickly and darted across the broken shells and seaweed to the water - a chill, then refreshing. Anya hesitated as the first wave ended its traverse inches beyond her ankles. She splashed a bit as the second one surprised her little aqua shoes. She walked forward a few steps to touch the next wave that didn't quite make it far enough...then she was hooked. We held her one on each side tightly as she tried to venture a little deeper each wave. Soon she was waist deep and giggling in delight. No sooner the water fell back into the sea and she dizzily teettered backwards, confused. After we were all cool we introduced her to sand.
I grab the bucket and guide Anya towards the little hill just in front of our blanket. Some kids earlier in the day had dug a trench and remnants of castle dreams cluttered the area. I plunked down in the sand, which makes me cringe for a moment, then I plop Anya down next to me. Instantly she lifts her sandy hands flat, towards me not sure whether to cry or be mad. I show her my hands and how I slapped them together to get the sand off, then I toss a pile of sand onto her leg and over my ankle. She smiles, but still holds those hands stiffly outward. I hand her the shovel. She forgets her hands and begins digging. She wrecks each bucket tower I build and is totally absorbed in this digging thing. Feeling the hot sun bake on my back Anya and I go back to the ocean edge for some cooling off.
Slashing away this time I sit her down in the shallows and show her the mini clams and how they dig as the water pulls back. She is fascinated by these tiny, colorful diggers. We sat there ebbing and flowing with the waves. She didn't mind dirty hands in this sand and picked it up and let it flow through her fingers. A few times some clams found their way ito her mouth. Poor things with me shoving my fingers into her clamped jaws to rescue the mini mollusks. This spot in between the wet and dry worlds was Anya's favorite. Can't say I disagreed either. Even daddy came down to join us too.
After some time I needed a cool down and left daddy and Anya to play in the waves. I slowly stepped through the water, stopping every few feet; it had been years since I bathed in the sea. I wasn't close to either lifeguard stand, and wasn't so sure of my footing and strength in Sponge Bob's realm, and frankly didn't feel like joining Bikini Bottom for eternity. I looked beyond to the cluster of vacationers neck deep, rolling in pre-wave relaxation. Instantly Sea Isle was mine again. I held my dad's hand, shaking with excitment and fear as he showed me the ocean beyond foamy, forceful of waves. He showed no fear of the ocean even though he didn't know how to swim...he could float and believed that's all he needed to know. He mocked me until I trudged out past the shell covered bottom to the satin under my feet and the calm beyond. He floated completely relaxed and I paniced as the current pulled us away from the lifeguard tower. But we were safe. We always stole those peaceful moments in the sea. The world didn't exist out here. Free from everything solid and firm and bound and staid. We bobbed with the sea, saw dolphins, and sometimes a fish that the sea gulls would attempt to have for lunch. The boats were more than specks on the horizon and the sounds of people vanished in roar of the sea.
I thought about finding the strength to bring Anya out here when she's old enough. I want Anya to understand the sea and its peace and beauty. Then I wonder if there will be a sea that's safe to swim in by the time she's old enough; I'm clouded by oil spills and trash dumping and melting ice caps. I say a little prayer to the gods of the deep to fight off the human disease. How could humans destroy something so pure? We are the cancer of the earth. I turn around and catch Anya, playing at the water line with her daddy, and the voices of the vacationers are audible again, snapping me out of my nightmare.
I watch her giggling and digging in the wet sand with her daddy, and again think back to our annual vacations here in Sea Isle. I remember having dinner as a family: me, Erica, Chrissy, and Connie, my parents and dad's parents, all filling the dining room and kitchen island in my godparent's beachhouse after our outdoor showers...you know you can't bring sand into the house...and fighting off those nasty green heads with soapy hands. We couldn't wait to gulp down the food and head out to the boardwalk. It was so routine, but we never caught on to it.
The Sea Isle boardwalk might have been Disneyland to this wild-eyed child. We hurried through dinner with the promise of the amusement park, mini golf, and skee ball...don't forget the ice cream. Every night my dad marched us hand in hand the 2 blocks to the boards, and we would play the night away. He played the dart and toss games and won us the life-sized stuffed animals, and bought us cotton candy against our mother's pleas. We rode the ferris wheel and tea cups and thrashed through funland. Other nights we parked in the arcade for a marathon skee ball adventure, saving our tickets each day to turn in for awesome junk at the end of our vacation. My dad lined us up and encouraged us to keep trying...and cheered when we hit anything above the gutter. We thought we had a million tickets at the end of each season...we couldn't wait to cash them in and took dibs on what we would trade for this year. And still other nights capped off time on the greens, or astro turf more applicably. Sister against sister and daughter against father we meandered through the course with the concentration of the US Open. We always held our breath at the last hole to see which one of us scored the whole in one that night.
Our days at the beach seem to be most memorable and accessible to me. I never realized how in tune I was to the beach and ocean and how strong those memories really are. I know that I need to find a way to bring them back to my life, and into Anya's. I have too many memories still scrolling across my mind. I can't even pick another to step into for a time. So I stepped out of the breaking waves back to Anya and daddy and into their little world of clams and receeding water.
We covered Anya up a bit and Rich took her for a walk on his shoulders from one guard tower to the next. I watched them disappear from sight and faded into anther moment in time...to the early morning walks on the beach with my grandmother and father. Every morning after our bike ride or roller skate or walk from one end of the boardwalk to the other, my grandmother and father would pack us kids up and stroll down to the beach for some quieter play in the sand. This was not swimming time, this was adventure time. My dad took us older girls, while the younder ones built castles with yiayia, to the jetties and showed us the tide pools and all the sea creatures that lived in this bizzare habitat. We collected sea shells and star fish and sponges and spent hours of adventures playing around the jetties. We would trek home afterwards tired and full of dreams and napped until lunch and round two. Rich brough Anya up to the blanket sound asleep slumped over his shoulders, exhausted from her first day at the beach.
After a nap under the umbrella we cleaned up and set off for the house for showers, dinner and the car ride home. Maybe we were all tired. Maybe the sun was too much. Maybe we thought we had too much fun and a balance needed to be maintained. Maybe the devil came for his part of the deal. But no more than five minutes into the ride home all hell broke loose. I'm not doing it. I'm just not going to be accused of the rage that I didn't ellicit. I'm not going to accept blame for someone else's tabtrum. I'm tired of being blamed and accused and yelled at and defeated and beaten to a pulp. I'm emotionally spent. I need him to take responsibility for his emotions and behavior and words and to be a man not a man-child. I need to him to show respect and thoughfulness. I need for him to think on his own, jesus fucking christ, just once....please. The rage and victim mentality cannot continue. He's becoming his father I think, and it scares me. I'm running out of excuses and strength. I don't even know what the right course is. I have nightmares now about the last brick falling, and it hurts too much. But I don't know if there is enough mortor for repairs. How do you turn something so beautiful into something too horrid to comprehend?
The salt air tickled my nose as the long-familiar scenery sped by on the darkening road. It's been so long: too long, a magical place for me, a home. A spontaneous deal with the devil allowed me a visit to la Mer. O I didn't care. It felt wonderful and exciting and right.
We pulled up to our 24 home at well past bedtime. Anya sensed the change in atmophere and awoke with fascination at this strange place. She wandered and touched and smelled and breathed deeply. Freyja and Bailey wagged and bowed, and learned the place while good friends settled into beers and stories. The trax, second floor deck beconed for company with a rocker and plenty of seating. The house was sparse, but contained all that was needed for a life outside of reality with no maintenance required. I shut the bedroom door behind me and cradled Anya in the full sized bed, hoping she would relax back into slumber. Alas...you know how the story goes...she tossed and turned and grabbed at my locks and kicked my ribs and at 30.75 inches long nearly hogged the expanse of mattress. I put her in the pack n play only to have her wake the other house guests...grunt...long night ahead.
At odd intervals throughout the night sleep was granted, then denied, then granted again. The antique window unit struggled to maintain what should have been a comfortable temperature...I should have put the ceiling fan on. But ahh you could still smell peace in this place. With so little sleep, yet enough, Anya woke at 7:30am with a smile and curiosity; I was only too eager to share with her my secret love.
Pleasantries and coffee filled the early morning as we sat on the balcony watching the sun burn off the dewy air. We have no where to be and no where to go just breath. Anya fascinated by the grainy stuff sticking to her feet and hands, didn't know if she should cry or lick or rub into her hair the small granuals..."that's sand honey, o no don't eat it, do this to shake it off." She waved to the sea gulls that past by and snuggled with the doggies keeping her special company in this strange land. At about that time we ventured off to take Freyja and Bailey on an adventure to Poseindon's realm.
Longport beach: an amusement park for the furry variety. Freyja has never been to the beach, never seen an ocean, and never ran free without blockade fencing; there are far a few locations where Charlie Brown doesn't resonate, "No Dogs Allowed." We all walked onto the small and rugged beach...not quiet what I had envisioned, but should have expected. Rocks and seaweed and dark, muddy sand marked the short beach along the road between here and there. A few other canine vacationers were already on the scene racing in the sand and waves like 5 year olds in Chuckie Cheese. Leashed and testing we laid out a towel and Anya's bucket in a random clear spot wondering if Bailey would show Freyja the joys of a beach dog life.
Within a few breaths Freyja was chomping to get at the foaming white-caps taunting her and chase the wet, smelly playmates on the softness beneath her paws. Rich got brave and disconnected her leash, and we stood there holding in the salty air until we were confident Freyja had found utter pleasure. She sprinted and chased and ran laps and bound into the rough sea. She played tag and catch and bounced and laughed as only a dog could. She was her old self, chasing Bailey around the magical island. Anya was tickled to see so many doggies in one place. Some greeted her with licks and nudges, but mostly they ignored her for the overwhelming fancy of the sea. After an hour of non stop movement univited guests swarmed the beach at Longport, inflicting misery on all variety of life. They were here and there and merciless. Green Heads, the dreaded mascot of the Jersey Shore...and hungry. I kept Anya in movement and bore their mealtime pain. In the water, outside the water...swatting and ouching. Soon the others were doing the same dance as I and the beach quickly cleared. Freyja and Bailey laid down in the back exhausted and gratful for the beach dog adventure.
Time for pizza lunch and naps. It seemed like we had already enjoyed a full day that was barely half begun.
Perfect Day part two was for the 2 leggers. Towels and blakets and chairs and water bottles and snacks and O my packed into bags and the car. The sun had gotten hot and the sky clear in this after noon hour. I hadn't been to a Sea Isle beach since my teens: that was too long ago now. I vaguely remembered the difference from Wildwood Crest and the beach home of my adult years...as foreign as Sea Isle seemed, the more like home it felt. I carried Anya through the hotest white sand at the entry point while the boys carried everything to our landing space. Anya was overstimulated by all the people and colorful blankes and umbrellas and playing, screaming children of all ages. She looked outward at the expanse of the sea and smiled...my child the pisces, just like her mother.
We found a spot before the waterline, but beyond the hot dry sand....perfect. We set up camp quickly and darted across the broken shells and seaweed to the water - a chill, then refreshing. Anya hesitated as the first wave ended its traverse inches beyond her ankles. She splashed a bit as the second one surprised her little aqua shoes. She walked forward a few steps to touch the next wave that didn't quite make it far enough...then she was hooked. We held her one on each side tightly as she tried to venture a little deeper each wave. Soon she was waist deep and giggling in delight. No sooner the water fell back into the sea and she dizzily teettered backwards, confused. After we were all cool we introduced her to sand.
I grab the bucket and guide Anya towards the little hill just in front of our blanket. Some kids earlier in the day had dug a trench and remnants of castle dreams cluttered the area. I plunked down in the sand, which makes me cringe for a moment, then I plop Anya down next to me. Instantly she lifts her sandy hands flat, towards me not sure whether to cry or be mad. I show her my hands and how I slapped them together to get the sand off, then I toss a pile of sand onto her leg and over my ankle. She smiles, but still holds those hands stiffly outward. I hand her the shovel. She forgets her hands and begins digging. She wrecks each bucket tower I build and is totally absorbed in this digging thing. Feeling the hot sun bake on my back Anya and I go back to the ocean edge for some cooling off.
Slashing away this time I sit her down in the shallows and show her the mini clams and how they dig as the water pulls back. She is fascinated by these tiny, colorful diggers. We sat there ebbing and flowing with the waves. She didn't mind dirty hands in this sand and picked it up and let it flow through her fingers. A few times some clams found their way ito her mouth. Poor things with me shoving my fingers into her clamped jaws to rescue the mini mollusks. This spot in between the wet and dry worlds was Anya's favorite. Can't say I disagreed either. Even daddy came down to join us too.
After some time I needed a cool down and left daddy and Anya to play in the waves. I slowly stepped through the water, stopping every few feet; it had been years since I bathed in the sea. I wasn't close to either lifeguard stand, and wasn't so sure of my footing and strength in Sponge Bob's realm, and frankly didn't feel like joining Bikini Bottom for eternity. I looked beyond to the cluster of vacationers neck deep, rolling in pre-wave relaxation. Instantly Sea Isle was mine again. I held my dad's hand, shaking with excitment and fear as he showed me the ocean beyond foamy, forceful of waves. He showed no fear of the ocean even though he didn't know how to swim...he could float and believed that's all he needed to know. He mocked me until I trudged out past the shell covered bottom to the satin under my feet and the calm beyond. He floated completely relaxed and I paniced as the current pulled us away from the lifeguard tower. But we were safe. We always stole those peaceful moments in the sea. The world didn't exist out here. Free from everything solid and firm and bound and staid. We bobbed with the sea, saw dolphins, and sometimes a fish that the sea gulls would attempt to have for lunch. The boats were more than specks on the horizon and the sounds of people vanished in roar of the sea.
I thought about finding the strength to bring Anya out here when she's old enough. I want Anya to understand the sea and its peace and beauty. Then I wonder if there will be a sea that's safe to swim in by the time she's old enough; I'm clouded by oil spills and trash dumping and melting ice caps. I say a little prayer to the gods of the deep to fight off the human disease. How could humans destroy something so pure? We are the cancer of the earth. I turn around and catch Anya, playing at the water line with her daddy, and the voices of the vacationers are audible again, snapping me out of my nightmare.
I watch her giggling and digging in the wet sand with her daddy, and again think back to our annual vacations here in Sea Isle. I remember having dinner as a family: me, Erica, Chrissy, and Connie, my parents and dad's parents, all filling the dining room and kitchen island in my godparent's beachhouse after our outdoor showers...you know you can't bring sand into the house...and fighting off those nasty green heads with soapy hands. We couldn't wait to gulp down the food and head out to the boardwalk. It was so routine, but we never caught on to it.
The Sea Isle boardwalk might have been Disneyland to this wild-eyed child. We hurried through dinner with the promise of the amusement park, mini golf, and skee ball...don't forget the ice cream. Every night my dad marched us hand in hand the 2 blocks to the boards, and we would play the night away. He played the dart and toss games and won us the life-sized stuffed animals, and bought us cotton candy against our mother's pleas. We rode the ferris wheel and tea cups and thrashed through funland. Other nights we parked in the arcade for a marathon skee ball adventure, saving our tickets each day to turn in for awesome junk at the end of our vacation. My dad lined us up and encouraged us to keep trying...and cheered when we hit anything above the gutter. We thought we had a million tickets at the end of each season...we couldn't wait to cash them in and took dibs on what we would trade for this year. And still other nights capped off time on the greens, or astro turf more applicably. Sister against sister and daughter against father we meandered through the course with the concentration of the US Open. We always held our breath at the last hole to see which one of us scored the whole in one that night.
Our days at the beach seem to be most memorable and accessible to me. I never realized how in tune I was to the beach and ocean and how strong those memories really are. I know that I need to find a way to bring them back to my life, and into Anya's. I have too many memories still scrolling across my mind. I can't even pick another to step into for a time. So I stepped out of the breaking waves back to Anya and daddy and into their little world of clams and receeding water.
We covered Anya up a bit and Rich took her for a walk on his shoulders from one guard tower to the next. I watched them disappear from sight and faded into anther moment in time...to the early morning walks on the beach with my grandmother and father. Every morning after our bike ride or roller skate or walk from one end of the boardwalk to the other, my grandmother and father would pack us kids up and stroll down to the beach for some quieter play in the sand. This was not swimming time, this was adventure time. My dad took us older girls, while the younder ones built castles with yiayia, to the jetties and showed us the tide pools and all the sea creatures that lived in this bizzare habitat. We collected sea shells and star fish and sponges and spent hours of adventures playing around the jetties. We would trek home afterwards tired and full of dreams and napped until lunch and round two. Rich brough Anya up to the blanket sound asleep slumped over his shoulders, exhausted from her first day at the beach.
After a nap under the umbrella we cleaned up and set off for the house for showers, dinner and the car ride home. Maybe we were all tired. Maybe the sun was too much. Maybe we thought we had too much fun and a balance needed to be maintained. Maybe the devil came for his part of the deal. But no more than five minutes into the ride home all hell broke loose. I'm not doing it. I'm just not going to be accused of the rage that I didn't ellicit. I'm not going to accept blame for someone else's tabtrum. I'm tired of being blamed and accused and yelled at and defeated and beaten to a pulp. I'm emotionally spent. I need him to take responsibility for his emotions and behavior and words and to be a man not a man-child. I need to him to show respect and thoughfulness. I need for him to think on his own, jesus fucking christ, just once....please. The rage and victim mentality cannot continue. He's becoming his father I think, and it scares me. I'm running out of excuses and strength. I don't even know what the right course is. I have nightmares now about the last brick falling, and it hurts too much. But I don't know if there is enough mortor for repairs. How do you turn something so beautiful into something too horrid to comprehend?
13 July 2010
Broken Heart
Isn't this blog supposed to be cathartic? I tend to fear posting too much or specifics for fear that the wrong person will read it. Look back at my veiled references to my husband's and daughter's names and other places where I thought I could be crafty and write around them. At some point I became positive and free enough to just say it, and suddenly spouse and daughter earned names (applause here). Yet this morning, I am once again slogging through the truth in fear. Stupid.
Now last week I ended rather abruptly with the ridiculous email, texting, smsing, phone calls of my boss for a situation I could do nothing about - the power went out in the building due to the heat wave. I had barely gotten the car unloaded when he expected me to sprint the almost 20 miles to the office to stand guard (perhaps) since our magnetic locks disengaged from the power outage - security issue. Now after my frantic calls to our IT department, landlord, and facilities resulted in a ton of left messages with no response, I continued to back and forth with my boss and tried to boot up my lazy laptop to start sending out emails. After only an hour the power came back on and the return calls started coming in. He wanted explainations and resolutions and he wanted them now. Really? So for 3.5 hours after I pulled curbside to my home while still technically on vacation I worked in a panic state enforced by my check writer.
Now before I was able to enjoy the last few hours of vacation before bed I realized that my hubby didn't think to pick up milk or fruit or anything prior to our arrival home. I know I'm woman hear me roar, but really a thought like that shouldn't be rocket science. At some point I need to be able to rely on my spouse to think. So out I go to the market for some quick items before I put the baby to bed. On my way I was almost hit by 2 cars...1 making a left into me and the second running a stop sign (insert explitives here). Home again, unpacked groceries, happy milk-belly baby, car unloaded and unpacked, baby to bed and ahhh I get a half hour before I should hit the sack. I sat staring at whatever hubby had on the TV. I have no idea what it was or if I even enjoyed it. At 11 I could no longer avoid the trek upstairs, with a heave and a sigh I slugged off. 5 steps into my journey hubby decides to make an announcement.
"So, my Zoloft isn't working anymore so I'm going to take myself off of it. I'm getting withdrawl symptoms from it not working anymore. Just thought I'd let you know." WTF! "Are you mad?! No way are you 1st of all weening yourself off without a doctor's approval and supervison. And secondly I will not put myself or our daughter through that. Get that out of your head. You need meds or I'm not doing this. Who do you think you are?" I later investigated if it's possible to experience withdrawl symptoms when the drugs stop working...and could find nothing to support that...only a decrease in mg intake would cause withdrawl. So he's lying too? Does he take me for a fool? Why would he put his daughter at risk or his family for that matter? He needs an effing doctor. And for all the years that I've known him he has come up with some excuse to stop seeing any therapist who attemps to regulate him.
I don't know if he is still weening himself without a doctor or if he decided against it after our debate. But I can say that he has become mean, thoughless, aggressive and a little manic. So either he needs his meds upped, changed, or stop being stupid. Whatever the case my be, I'm too tired. Yesterday he left something dangerous open and out within child's reach in the bathroom. As I was filling her tub I turned to find she had it in her mouth. A quick call to poison control basically assumed that I caught her in time and she most likely just licked the top and not tiped it back to drink at that point. I sent hubby a text to be more careful. After all he was also the one who left the Fabreeze out on the coffee table and walked away from her while she unscrewed it and dumped it all over herself and the table. Thankfully a thea was over and caught her before that was drank as well. Use a brain cell please.
So last night at 12:30 when he arrived home from work, when both me and baby were soundly sleeping, a rarity for sure, he woke me up to say, "is she ok?" Half asleep I'm like, "what?" "Is she ok? and now my tracker is ruined because you didn't put the roof or windows back on for me." Awake now I reply, "she is fine obviously because we are both sleeping, and no I didn't ruin your car you did when you left it open during the monsoon on Saturday and again today. Sorry I couldn't get outside before the storm after you left for work, knowing it was supposed to rain, and I was on the phone with morgage people and student loan people until Anya woke up from her nap. Thanks for waking me and the baby up you ass." I went off to pee and tried to sleep in the other room. My mind was racing. I then tried to go down to the couch. Still not possible. Our lonely cat started crying incessantly and my mind was just trying to kill me. I crawled back into bed and snuggled my lil squeak, hoping to fall asleep...it took 3 hours.
I'm so tired today and angry and confused. I was listening to MMR's Preston and Steve on my way in to work. The 2 day topic of conversation has been Mel Gibson's abusive, beligerent tirade. He is a mean ignorant bastard...good thing I never liked him or I'd be real depressed. And for a few minutes I think I don't have it so bad and why can't we just work through it. Then the other part of me says that I deserve to be treated with respect, something which has been lacking in our realtionship for 2 years. My gut tells me I'm being taken advantage of: I can multitask, work multiple jobs, run on little sleep, and think like a machine...something he cannot. But he doesn't even try. I've carried him so long that he doesn't realize he's gone soft with entitlement: very unattractive and pitiable.
My parents didn't raise a dummy or a fool. Sure I'm strong and resilient and focused, but that doesn't make me the pinyata or whatever symbolic object of abuse you choose for imagry. What happened to you? All those stories you told me of your past make sense to me now and take on new meaning. You played my sympathies like the Red Violin. Look at yourself for a change. You're a parent, a husband, a homeowner, a friend, yet you behave like the world owes you for the sake of oweing. You think you're a clown and a beautiful person, but wonder why no one comes calling. You've grown ugly and mean with your ego. What lesson is that for your daughter. You aspired for nothing, you sat and expected the world to fall into place like magic, and along I came.
Now last week I ended rather abruptly with the ridiculous email, texting, smsing, phone calls of my boss for a situation I could do nothing about - the power went out in the building due to the heat wave. I had barely gotten the car unloaded when he expected me to sprint the almost 20 miles to the office to stand guard (perhaps) since our magnetic locks disengaged from the power outage - security issue. Now after my frantic calls to our IT department, landlord, and facilities resulted in a ton of left messages with no response, I continued to back and forth with my boss and tried to boot up my lazy laptop to start sending out emails. After only an hour the power came back on and the return calls started coming in. He wanted explainations and resolutions and he wanted them now. Really? So for 3.5 hours after I pulled curbside to my home while still technically on vacation I worked in a panic state enforced by my check writer.
Now before I was able to enjoy the last few hours of vacation before bed I realized that my hubby didn't think to pick up milk or fruit or anything prior to our arrival home. I know I'm woman hear me roar, but really a thought like that shouldn't be rocket science. At some point I need to be able to rely on my spouse to think. So out I go to the market for some quick items before I put the baby to bed. On my way I was almost hit by 2 cars...1 making a left into me and the second running a stop sign (insert explitives here). Home again, unpacked groceries, happy milk-belly baby, car unloaded and unpacked, baby to bed and ahhh I get a half hour before I should hit the sack. I sat staring at whatever hubby had on the TV. I have no idea what it was or if I even enjoyed it. At 11 I could no longer avoid the trek upstairs, with a heave and a sigh I slugged off. 5 steps into my journey hubby decides to make an announcement.
"So, my Zoloft isn't working anymore so I'm going to take myself off of it. I'm getting withdrawl symptoms from it not working anymore. Just thought I'd let you know." WTF! "Are you mad?! No way are you 1st of all weening yourself off without a doctor's approval and supervison. And secondly I will not put myself or our daughter through that. Get that out of your head. You need meds or I'm not doing this. Who do you think you are?" I later investigated if it's possible to experience withdrawl symptoms when the drugs stop working...and could find nothing to support that...only a decrease in mg intake would cause withdrawl. So he's lying too? Does he take me for a fool? Why would he put his daughter at risk or his family for that matter? He needs an effing doctor. And for all the years that I've known him he has come up with some excuse to stop seeing any therapist who attemps to regulate him.
I don't know if he is still weening himself without a doctor or if he decided against it after our debate. But I can say that he has become mean, thoughless, aggressive and a little manic. So either he needs his meds upped, changed, or stop being stupid. Whatever the case my be, I'm too tired. Yesterday he left something dangerous open and out within child's reach in the bathroom. As I was filling her tub I turned to find she had it in her mouth. A quick call to poison control basically assumed that I caught her in time and she most likely just licked the top and not tiped it back to drink at that point. I sent hubby a text to be more careful. After all he was also the one who left the Fabreeze out on the coffee table and walked away from her while she unscrewed it and dumped it all over herself and the table. Thankfully a thea was over and caught her before that was drank as well. Use a brain cell please.
So last night at 12:30 when he arrived home from work, when both me and baby were soundly sleeping, a rarity for sure, he woke me up to say, "is she ok?" Half asleep I'm like, "what?" "Is she ok? and now my tracker is ruined because you didn't put the roof or windows back on for me." Awake now I reply, "she is fine obviously because we are both sleeping, and no I didn't ruin your car you did when you left it open during the monsoon on Saturday and again today. Sorry I couldn't get outside before the storm after you left for work, knowing it was supposed to rain, and I was on the phone with morgage people and student loan people until Anya woke up from her nap. Thanks for waking me and the baby up you ass." I went off to pee and tried to sleep in the other room. My mind was racing. I then tried to go down to the couch. Still not possible. Our lonely cat started crying incessantly and my mind was just trying to kill me. I crawled back into bed and snuggled my lil squeak, hoping to fall asleep...it took 3 hours.
I'm so tired today and angry and confused. I was listening to MMR's Preston and Steve on my way in to work. The 2 day topic of conversation has been Mel Gibson's abusive, beligerent tirade. He is a mean ignorant bastard...good thing I never liked him or I'd be real depressed. And for a few minutes I think I don't have it so bad and why can't we just work through it. Then the other part of me says that I deserve to be treated with respect, something which has been lacking in our realtionship for 2 years. My gut tells me I'm being taken advantage of: I can multitask, work multiple jobs, run on little sleep, and think like a machine...something he cannot. But he doesn't even try. I've carried him so long that he doesn't realize he's gone soft with entitlement: very unattractive and pitiable.
My parents didn't raise a dummy or a fool. Sure I'm strong and resilient and focused, but that doesn't make me the pinyata or whatever symbolic object of abuse you choose for imagry. What happened to you? All those stories you told me of your past make sense to me now and take on new meaning. You played my sympathies like the Red Violin. Look at yourself for a change. You're a parent, a husband, a homeowner, a friend, yet you behave like the world owes you for the sake of oweing. You think you're a clown and a beautiful person, but wonder why no one comes calling. You've grown ugly and mean with your ego. What lesson is that for your daughter. You aspired for nothing, you sat and expected the world to fall into place like magic, and along I came.
09 July 2010
1 Year Renewal
O shhhhhh already. I fell off the face of blogtown - consider it a long vacation. I'm not even going to look back where I left off. I recall a lot of bitching and complaining and too much negativity and fear. Not that it has gone away or changed so much, I merely don't feel like listening to myself any longer. That's fair for all of us I believe.
I finally took a long weekend - of 6 days - and loaded myself and Anya into the car and sped across Pennsyltucky to the land of Pittsburgh to visit my mother. It was...nice. I relaxed for not being in the office or staring at my walls and being away from anything that tends to cause agida. However, Anya took this opportunity to turn into a she-devil child promptly upon arrival, and they tell me it's her age. Great. A few days off fraught with nightmarish screaming and clinginess and anti-social behavior from the 15 month old just in time for a rare visit with yiayia and her best aunt and uncle. Good grief! I enjoyed my time no less, but arrived home unrested - motherhood...grunt.
I am tempted to look at back my posting last year, same time, and yet another trip to Pittsburgh, however, pre-mom move and I was not the navigator. I am not living in yesterday today, but I remember I was consumed by the fog and lost in a painful physical and mental horror flick, but thankfully they don't kill the leading lady, and here I am today basking in the sun away from the masked murderer and languishng in more of bad episode of prime time drama than the chiller channel.
4th of July weekend always summons memories of the shore and boardwalk and lazy summer days; with no money to pay the mortgage and an infant in tow a shore trip was not in the cards. The long weekend made it simpler to contemplate a trip westward to see my mother to have her now quaterly visit with her granddaughter. Hubby's part time job makes it impossible for him to take any time off since the creditors want more than we have coming in, so anything I planned for the weekend would have to be a mommy and baby adventure. I don't know how or why, but I decided that if I didn't have some actual extended time away from the office I was going to rupture the time space continuim with a supernova. So a trotted off to my boss' office and said, "I am going to visit my mom, I would like to take off next Friday through the following Wednesday, please tell me you are ok with it." A simple yes would have sufficed, but as usual my boss' inappropriate timing for humor went something like, "do you really need another vacation...didn't you just have one...hahaha." "um...not for over three years if you want to get technical...". "(clearing throat)...well then enjoy." Phone call to mom then panic set in.
I'm not a driver. I don't like going very far alone...retract...I don't like going very far unless someone else is driving. I make a much better passenger than navigator and usually this works out just fine. But not this time. I can do it. I can do it. I've made this trip thousands of times. What the hell am I afraid of. O crap. What if....and here we go. All the worst case scenarios audition in my head for the lead role in Road Trip 2010. Maybe we could take the train....8+ effing hours you're joking. Maybe we could fly...how much...ugh...driving it is. I distract myself with an OCD style organization and planning of the next few days. Cleaning, packing, calls, emails, filing; I'm working manic-style and accomplishing everything with a smile. My spring cleaning at the office and my travel preparation move along so smoothly I have no time to realize time's up.
I actually enjoy time alone. I knew Anya would sleep a bulk of the trip, and I knew enough coffee would keep my eyes open for the 4-5 hours it would take to traverse the great expanse of Pennsylvania...Philly to Pittsburgh may as well be NYC to LA as far as I'm concerned. As soon as Precious passed out I turned the radio and CD off and listened to nothing but the road. Quiet. Peace and quiet and nothing but green. I drifted off into lottery-winning day dreams and allowed co-pilot cruise control to prevent the driving tension from taking over. I was amazing myself through each tunnel and over each mountain. We stopped at Somerset Plaza to stretch our legs. Out of the air-conditioned car and into the lazy summer heat we entered the fairly empty plaza for a diaper change and pee break. Anya toddled into the plaza with doe eyes at the food court lights and smells of Roy Rogers and Starbucks coffee. Why are Roys only available at travel plazas now? Re-loaded with caffeine and kinks out of our legs we got back into the car for the last hour-ish of our trip. No sooner had Anya decided she'd had enough of her car seat than exit Allegheny Valley approached.
Yay...I did it. We're here. A few miles off the exit and we're home for a few days! WTF?! Road construction SUCKS! Another hour of backed up traffic on the 2 lane road to New Ken gave Anya's vocals time to generate a migraine. I pulled into the driveway, grabbed a screaming Anya, dropped her off in the back yard with yiayia and barely made the bathroom and 2 Advil. We're here.
We spent the mornings and afternoons lounging and eating and cooking and just doing not much. The late afternooons and evenings were spent at Thea Eleni's house for holiday weekend parties and excellent swimming. At night after Anya went to bed mom and I would get comfy on the king-sized bed and watch TV together. She introduced me to "You're Cut Off" and "The Gates" both of which I have now set to Autotune with Royal Pains and The Good Wife. I really could have stayed another week. Mom's house is so peacful and bright and comfortable. There is always a balance and that was achieve through Anya making life fairly diffucult for me, clinging to mommy and crying if she was more than 1 inch away. She pushed her yiayia and thea and uncle and cousins away and fake cried and threw tantrums constantly. She began running up to me and biting my thighs and alternating with strangling hugs. She usually loves the water, but I suppose the big pool was too much for her and it took until our last day for her to enjoy playing in the water and not clinging for dear life. She was still adorable and funny and coy...but man did mommy need a mommy break.
Sadly going home day came on quickly. My brain knew before I did and got weery and aggrevated about 24 hours before lift off...very similar to my Sunday night melt downs. I hate them. Every muscle in my body becomes tense, my back and hip and knee eminate pain, I get short and cranky and lose any sort of patience the universe tries to send my direction. It's my jeckyll and hyde time. I even considered extending my vacation by a day to turn down the monster, but decided that daddy needed some time with Anya before mommy went to the looney bin. Wednesday morning arrived with a sadness instead of tension. Over the morning hours I bathed Anya, packed the clean laundry that mom helped with, collected all evidence of our visit and packed it into the third floor closets for next time or into the car for home. Mom packed care packages of the food we cooked together for me to take home. We called yiayia in Greece and ate a spinach omelette and drank coffee. Down came the gates, out came mom's cats and into the car seat with thumb in mouth and twirling hair with other hand went Anya. On the road again....
Anya was asleep before I backed out of the driveway. There was that quiet again...and I loved it. Anya slept until Bowmansville Plaza...almost home and had to stop. Ugh. But hey...she was a trooper the whole trip - we would have made it in 4 hours. We shared some breadsticks and and trudged through the swampy heat back to the car. Ten degrees warmer in Philly than Pitt and boy did that make a difference. It was too hot to think about cooking so a KFC pit stop was in order before we pulled up to the house. I was able to unload the car while Anya slept. As I was getting her out of her car seat she woke up and looked out the window as the biggest grin crossed her face and she started clapping and babbling and hugged me. My little bratastic was home and she was happy.
She ran through the first floor and hugged Freyja who bowed to her with tail wagging. Calvin popped out from Anya's tent meowing his joy and jumped on the counch and let Anya snuggle with him for a full ten minutes. I zipped around unpacking as much as I could while I had the energy. Within that same 30 minutes Rich came home and hugged and kissed our welcome home, and my boss called, texted, emailed, SMSed, and called again...so much for that positive attitude after a nice vacation.
I finally took a long weekend - of 6 days - and loaded myself and Anya into the car and sped across Pennsyltucky to the land of Pittsburgh to visit my mother. It was...nice. I relaxed for not being in the office or staring at my walls and being away from anything that tends to cause agida. However, Anya took this opportunity to turn into a she-devil child promptly upon arrival, and they tell me it's her age. Great. A few days off fraught with nightmarish screaming and clinginess and anti-social behavior from the 15 month old just in time for a rare visit with yiayia and her best aunt and uncle. Good grief! I enjoyed my time no less, but arrived home unrested - motherhood...grunt.
I am tempted to look at back my posting last year, same time, and yet another trip to Pittsburgh, however, pre-mom move and I was not the navigator. I am not living in yesterday today, but I remember I was consumed by the fog and lost in a painful physical and mental horror flick, but thankfully they don't kill the leading lady, and here I am today basking in the sun away from the masked murderer and languishng in more of bad episode of prime time drama than the chiller channel.
4th of July weekend always summons memories of the shore and boardwalk and lazy summer days; with no money to pay the mortgage and an infant in tow a shore trip was not in the cards. The long weekend made it simpler to contemplate a trip westward to see my mother to have her now quaterly visit with her granddaughter. Hubby's part time job makes it impossible for him to take any time off since the creditors want more than we have coming in, so anything I planned for the weekend would have to be a mommy and baby adventure. I don't know how or why, but I decided that if I didn't have some actual extended time away from the office I was going to rupture the time space continuim with a supernova. So a trotted off to my boss' office and said, "I am going to visit my mom, I would like to take off next Friday through the following Wednesday, please tell me you are ok with it." A simple yes would have sufficed, but as usual my boss' inappropriate timing for humor went something like, "do you really need another vacation...didn't you just have one...hahaha." "um...not for over three years if you want to get technical...". "(clearing throat)...well then enjoy." Phone call to mom then panic set in.
I'm not a driver. I don't like going very far alone...retract...I don't like going very far unless someone else is driving. I make a much better passenger than navigator and usually this works out just fine. But not this time. I can do it. I can do it. I've made this trip thousands of times. What the hell am I afraid of. O crap. What if....and here we go. All the worst case scenarios audition in my head for the lead role in Road Trip 2010. Maybe we could take the train....8+ effing hours you're joking. Maybe we could fly...how much...ugh...driving it is. I distract myself with an OCD style organization and planning of the next few days. Cleaning, packing, calls, emails, filing; I'm working manic-style and accomplishing everything with a smile. My spring cleaning at the office and my travel preparation move along so smoothly I have no time to realize time's up.
I actually enjoy time alone. I knew Anya would sleep a bulk of the trip, and I knew enough coffee would keep my eyes open for the 4-5 hours it would take to traverse the great expanse of Pennsylvania...Philly to Pittsburgh may as well be NYC to LA as far as I'm concerned. As soon as Precious passed out I turned the radio and CD off and listened to nothing but the road. Quiet. Peace and quiet and nothing but green. I drifted off into lottery-winning day dreams and allowed co-pilot cruise control to prevent the driving tension from taking over. I was amazing myself through each tunnel and over each mountain. We stopped at Somerset Plaza to stretch our legs. Out of the air-conditioned car and into the lazy summer heat we entered the fairly empty plaza for a diaper change and pee break. Anya toddled into the plaza with doe eyes at the food court lights and smells of Roy Rogers and Starbucks coffee. Why are Roys only available at travel plazas now? Re-loaded with caffeine and kinks out of our legs we got back into the car for the last hour-ish of our trip. No sooner had Anya decided she'd had enough of her car seat than exit Allegheny Valley approached.
Yay...I did it. We're here. A few miles off the exit and we're home for a few days! WTF?! Road construction SUCKS! Another hour of backed up traffic on the 2 lane road to New Ken gave Anya's vocals time to generate a migraine. I pulled into the driveway, grabbed a screaming Anya, dropped her off in the back yard with yiayia and barely made the bathroom and 2 Advil. We're here.
We spent the mornings and afternoons lounging and eating and cooking and just doing not much. The late afternooons and evenings were spent at Thea Eleni's house for holiday weekend parties and excellent swimming. At night after Anya went to bed mom and I would get comfy on the king-sized bed and watch TV together. She introduced me to "You're Cut Off" and "The Gates" both of which I have now set to Autotune with Royal Pains and The Good Wife. I really could have stayed another week. Mom's house is so peacful and bright and comfortable. There is always a balance and that was achieve through Anya making life fairly diffucult for me, clinging to mommy and crying if she was more than 1 inch away. She pushed her yiayia and thea and uncle and cousins away and fake cried and threw tantrums constantly. She began running up to me and biting my thighs and alternating with strangling hugs. She usually loves the water, but I suppose the big pool was too much for her and it took until our last day for her to enjoy playing in the water and not clinging for dear life. She was still adorable and funny and coy...but man did mommy need a mommy break.
Sadly going home day came on quickly. My brain knew before I did and got weery and aggrevated about 24 hours before lift off...very similar to my Sunday night melt downs. I hate them. Every muscle in my body becomes tense, my back and hip and knee eminate pain, I get short and cranky and lose any sort of patience the universe tries to send my direction. It's my jeckyll and hyde time. I even considered extending my vacation by a day to turn down the monster, but decided that daddy needed some time with Anya before mommy went to the looney bin. Wednesday morning arrived with a sadness instead of tension. Over the morning hours I bathed Anya, packed the clean laundry that mom helped with, collected all evidence of our visit and packed it into the third floor closets for next time or into the car for home. Mom packed care packages of the food we cooked together for me to take home. We called yiayia in Greece and ate a spinach omelette and drank coffee. Down came the gates, out came mom's cats and into the car seat with thumb in mouth and twirling hair with other hand went Anya. On the road again....
Anya was asleep before I backed out of the driveway. There was that quiet again...and I loved it. Anya slept until Bowmansville Plaza...almost home and had to stop. Ugh. But hey...she was a trooper the whole trip - we would have made it in 4 hours. We shared some breadsticks and and trudged through the swampy heat back to the car. Ten degrees warmer in Philly than Pitt and boy did that make a difference. It was too hot to think about cooking so a KFC pit stop was in order before we pulled up to the house. I was able to unload the car while Anya slept. As I was getting her out of her car seat she woke up and looked out the window as the biggest grin crossed her face and she started clapping and babbling and hugged me. My little bratastic was home and she was happy.
She ran through the first floor and hugged Freyja who bowed to her with tail wagging. Calvin popped out from Anya's tent meowing his joy and jumped on the counch and let Anya snuggle with him for a full ten minutes. I zipped around unpacking as much as I could while I had the energy. Within that same 30 minutes Rich came home and hugged and kissed our welcome home, and my boss called, texted, emailed, SMSed, and called again...so much for that positive attitude after a nice vacation.
28 April 2010
Stupidity the in-thing
Being a woman seems more difficult with each passing day. Ask Lilith...after all she couldn't get it right so Eve replaced her...and look what she did. Go Ladies! Getting it all wrong makes for a better adventure I'd say.
Money was invented when the planet's inhabitants discovered the service industry. It was much easier to pass some metal or gem as payment than carry a chicken or cow or bushel of corn to the local watering hole. The kings and their lackies decidedly had enough barter and trading when the store houses brimeth over and said sparklies are pretty...go get me more. And fictitous money was born. Don't question my history lesson.
What a crock of shit. No matter what I do to keep things a float I can never get enough water out from the bottom. I'm just sick of it. Pardon me while I wretch on the bill collectors and doc offices and insurance companies and supermarkets and gas stations and everyone that wants a piece of the sparklie, that, frankly, doesn't exist. I was one of those kids who got credit too soon and quickly fell into the "bad" pile. For years I worked to remedy my youthful foolishness and was finally able to buy a car and a house and nice things. I was so proud of my ability to get it right. I meticulously budgeted and managed flow and savings. I was prepared for emergencies. Yeah right, no one ever really is. I feel betrayed.
So, before I bitch and moan and complain about life not being fair, let me sympathize with all my bretheren and sisteren because I know I'm not the only one. News folk...shut up about the bad economy. Stop pointing fingers at the politicians and Wall Street and bankers. They all suck and all had a part in ruining our American Dream. And really, let's really think about that American Dream. Was there ever an attainable one? Did it die out after the industrial revolution? Who sold us that dream....those same politicians, stock markets and bankers...think Madoff times infinity.
Being a woman adds to this hell. We fought for equal rights; still fight for equal pay; we want to be mom, wife, supermodel, CEO, and woman...ROAR. You know I just want to say fuck it sometimes! I'm tired of bringing home the bacon, frying it up in a pan, and cleaning up the grease afterwards. I don't need this kind of life. We were so hyped to be free we forgot to build in protections, like keeping family first, not needing two incomes to survive, keeping men manly, and enjoying this short trip to earth before it ends. WTF?! How in all our infinite wisdom did we let this happen...we're women after all.
I'm just done with it. Motherhood has changed me. I'm so different that it's no wonder I look in the mirror and wonder about the strange creature looking back. I'm actually liking this creature more and more. She makes me rethink everything. But she's also a bitch. She hasn't much power, and I feel sorry for her. She's sad and angry and feels so helpless. She hates the world and life and things. But her heart is bigger than the universe, sucking in all that is like a black hole. Not many people understand her. She hates herself sometimes. But I like her. She's becoming my earth mother...I want to find a way to dry her tears and placate her cries. My daughter loves her. Nothing else matters.
The tea movement, the coffee movement, operation this and that, stand up, blog, write letters...5 minutes of fame and the candle goes out. Who hears me? I hear me. I'm tired of listening to me. Screw me and all my wishes and wants and complaints. Me and the rest of us. Well how the hell do I fix it? No don't tell me, it's only more unwanted advise and cliches and Charlie Brown's classroom. Everything is broken. But we live in a disposable society so we will replace and replace and replace instead of fixing it. And we say we're the smartest beings on the planet? We are dumb.
Money was invented when the planet's inhabitants discovered the service industry. It was much easier to pass some metal or gem as payment than carry a chicken or cow or bushel of corn to the local watering hole. The kings and their lackies decidedly had enough barter and trading when the store houses brimeth over and said sparklies are pretty...go get me more. And fictitous money was born. Don't question my history lesson.
What a crock of shit. No matter what I do to keep things a float I can never get enough water out from the bottom. I'm just sick of it. Pardon me while I wretch on the bill collectors and doc offices and insurance companies and supermarkets and gas stations and everyone that wants a piece of the sparklie, that, frankly, doesn't exist. I was one of those kids who got credit too soon and quickly fell into the "bad" pile. For years I worked to remedy my youthful foolishness and was finally able to buy a car and a house and nice things. I was so proud of my ability to get it right. I meticulously budgeted and managed flow and savings. I was prepared for emergencies. Yeah right, no one ever really is. I feel betrayed.
So, before I bitch and moan and complain about life not being fair, let me sympathize with all my bretheren and sisteren because I know I'm not the only one. News folk...shut up about the bad economy. Stop pointing fingers at the politicians and Wall Street and bankers. They all suck and all had a part in ruining our American Dream. And really, let's really think about that American Dream. Was there ever an attainable one? Did it die out after the industrial revolution? Who sold us that dream....those same politicians, stock markets and bankers...think Madoff times infinity.
Being a woman adds to this hell. We fought for equal rights; still fight for equal pay; we want to be mom, wife, supermodel, CEO, and woman...ROAR. You know I just want to say fuck it sometimes! I'm tired of bringing home the bacon, frying it up in a pan, and cleaning up the grease afterwards. I don't need this kind of life. We were so hyped to be free we forgot to build in protections, like keeping family first, not needing two incomes to survive, keeping men manly, and enjoying this short trip to earth before it ends. WTF?! How in all our infinite wisdom did we let this happen...we're women after all.
I'm just done with it. Motherhood has changed me. I'm so different that it's no wonder I look in the mirror and wonder about the strange creature looking back. I'm actually liking this creature more and more. She makes me rethink everything. But she's also a bitch. She hasn't much power, and I feel sorry for her. She's sad and angry and feels so helpless. She hates the world and life and things. But her heart is bigger than the universe, sucking in all that is like a black hole. Not many people understand her. She hates herself sometimes. But I like her. She's becoming my earth mother...I want to find a way to dry her tears and placate her cries. My daughter loves her. Nothing else matters.
The tea movement, the coffee movement, operation this and that, stand up, blog, write letters...5 minutes of fame and the candle goes out. Who hears me? I hear me. I'm tired of listening to me. Screw me and all my wishes and wants and complaints. Me and the rest of us. Well how the hell do I fix it? No don't tell me, it's only more unwanted advise and cliches and Charlie Brown's classroom. Everything is broken. But we live in a disposable society so we will replace and replace and replace instead of fixing it. And we say we're the smartest beings on the planet? We are dumb.
26 April 2010
My Blue Giants
I don't like being angry. But I am. A good deal of the time. Maybe I just realize my anger more than my quiet. One of my dear friends once told me that age will bring out my cynicism, and that we are fragile, not resilient. I didn't want to believe her, but I do now, and I blame motherhood more so than age. I've always been loyal and steadfast, held strong to my convictions - at least after I learned I had them - but remained open to alternate perspectives, and supported those dear to me without waiver, giving of myself even after I had nothing left. I'm still loyal, but to an ever smaller circle; my convictions...I'm less likely swayed; I support, but clearly have limits; and stupidity...no time or patience for its existence...get off the planet.
Thought warp.
I'm not one to pretend to be a film critic. I like my bubbly films for different reasons and not necessarily because of their story line, fantastical effects, political agenda, or actor-studdedness, but just because. I'm perfectly happy being this type of film watcher, takes away any stress really. I like Bridge Jones because I am an anglophile and she filled a void for my modern day Marc Darcy craving. I salivated over Moulin Rouge for its true love story and cinematography, and let's not forget what it did with some favorite songs. I emmersed myself in the Tomb Raider films because Angelina Joilie is hot and I love a woman who is smart and kick ass; I like Indy and period and comedy and kids movies mostly, but I have my moments of wow for those mass market masterpieces. My husband even turned me on to comic gone big screen super heroes. But in general I like it or I don't. I watch to escape and be absorbed by the story and characters, not for some greater purpose.
As an english major I have more than read my share of classics and shoulds and musts and definitly the don't-tell-anyone-I-read-that ones. I do bandwagon with my reading compatriots that the book is far better than the film, mostly because it's true. Take Chocolat for example. The film destroyed any faith I had in book turned movie - Harry Potter remedied that though. Joann Harris' Chocolat richly painted the small French town and its inhabitants: there was no mayor, only the tempted priest; no love afair with Johnny Depp, just a symbol of the gypsy life as yet another decadent tempation to the folks of the Christian town. The book stepped out on a limb, dancing with witchcraft and undermining abstinence - Eve became the savior. When the book went big screen it was considered too risque and was forced to undergo a makeover, thus a beautiful film to watch, but a story lacking free thought. Enjoyable, but for different reasons.
I haven't bought or rented any film in longer than I can remember. I refuse to pay a week's salary to dinner and a movie on a Friday night, and who has time to rent and watch anything with a 1 year old flitting about. I haven't joined NetFlix and my DirectTV doesn't have OnDemand, and no DVR either folks. But I was determined that I was going to experience Avatar. So much hype and commentary abounded regarding this film, and frankly, I thought it might just be cool enough effects alone. My household sits in front of an old 32" tube TV with a curved screen. There is no HD, no widescreen, no surround sound to be had. Don't freak...there really are houses that haven't caught up with the Jones'. But really we don't know much different, and don't care to since we'd rather experience real life than reality TV. My husband hadn't heard much about this movie, he kept asking me what it was about. Honestly, I didn't know myself, but decided there was something about this movie that we had to see. Target, debit card, thank you.
Dinner time Anya decided that it was time to melt down...epicly. She didn't want her strawberries, she didn't want her fish, she didn't want her ravioli, she didn't want her dolly, but maybe her milk...nope. We gave her a bath and some motrin and tried the milk again. Clean and tummy full of milk she still fussed and cried and didn't know what she wanted. Then...after a few more rejections and tears...she stopped, got off the couch, went to her toys and started playing like nothing was wrong in the universe. humpf. Really?!
Select to Play.
Anya nestled in my lap and fell asleep just in time for the Navi Avatars to stand up and run. Nice. What beauty and spectacle! I was in love. I'm not here to give a play by play summary or even an official personal review. One cannot mistake the commentary or underlying meaning. You can always debate true love of a woman or love of having his limbs returned? Was technology or spiritual energy the true god here? Maybe one day I will review all the detours I want to take. But for now I want to be one with the Navi and their world and their beliefs.
I closed my eyes during the fighting sequences. I couldn't stomach the pain. I cursed at the Colonel and Parker for their reckless destruction. And even though I knew that Jake Sully would come around, I hated him for being such a jack ass to start. I'm a little over all the anti hero crap really. But the movie was more. I admire the age old warning of respect to nature, I was pleased to see the interconnectedness of life taken to a newer platform, and I was fascinated with the Neuromancer feel, but as natural, not machine...softer edge to the matrix. The movie was a pleasure and I could probalbly debate meanings and sequenses and philosophies and religion and politics for hours. But for now I'm going to languish on Pandora without questions.
I feel an urge to start excavating, but I know exhaustion is near. I'll have to pop it into the DVD a few more times then have vodka and a discussion party. Any takers? What a tease...even for me.
Thought warp.
I'm not one to pretend to be a film critic. I like my bubbly films for different reasons and not necessarily because of their story line, fantastical effects, political agenda, or actor-studdedness, but just because. I'm perfectly happy being this type of film watcher, takes away any stress really. I like Bridge Jones because I am an anglophile and she filled a void for my modern day Marc Darcy craving. I salivated over Moulin Rouge for its true love story and cinematography, and let's not forget what it did with some favorite songs. I emmersed myself in the Tomb Raider films because Angelina Joilie is hot and I love a woman who is smart and kick ass; I like Indy and period and comedy and kids movies mostly, but I have my moments of wow for those mass market masterpieces. My husband even turned me on to comic gone big screen super heroes. But in general I like it or I don't. I watch to escape and be absorbed by the story and characters, not for some greater purpose.
As an english major I have more than read my share of classics and shoulds and musts and definitly the don't-tell-anyone-I-read-that ones. I do bandwagon with my reading compatriots that the book is far better than the film, mostly because it's true. Take Chocolat for example. The film destroyed any faith I had in book turned movie - Harry Potter remedied that though. Joann Harris' Chocolat richly painted the small French town and its inhabitants: there was no mayor, only the tempted priest; no love afair with Johnny Depp, just a symbol of the gypsy life as yet another decadent tempation to the folks of the Christian town. The book stepped out on a limb, dancing with witchcraft and undermining abstinence - Eve became the savior. When the book went big screen it was considered too risque and was forced to undergo a makeover, thus a beautiful film to watch, but a story lacking free thought. Enjoyable, but for different reasons.
I haven't bought or rented any film in longer than I can remember. I refuse to pay a week's salary to dinner and a movie on a Friday night, and who has time to rent and watch anything with a 1 year old flitting about. I haven't joined NetFlix and my DirectTV doesn't have OnDemand, and no DVR either folks. But I was determined that I was going to experience Avatar. So much hype and commentary abounded regarding this film, and frankly, I thought it might just be cool enough effects alone. My household sits in front of an old 32" tube TV with a curved screen. There is no HD, no widescreen, no surround sound to be had. Don't freak...there really are houses that haven't caught up with the Jones'. But really we don't know much different, and don't care to since we'd rather experience real life than reality TV. My husband hadn't heard much about this movie, he kept asking me what it was about. Honestly, I didn't know myself, but decided there was something about this movie that we had to see. Target, debit card, thank you.
Dinner time Anya decided that it was time to melt down...epicly. She didn't want her strawberries, she didn't want her fish, she didn't want her ravioli, she didn't want her dolly, but maybe her milk...nope. We gave her a bath and some motrin and tried the milk again. Clean and tummy full of milk she still fussed and cried and didn't know what she wanted. Then...after a few more rejections and tears...she stopped, got off the couch, went to her toys and started playing like nothing was wrong in the universe. humpf. Really?!
Select to Play.
Anya nestled in my lap and fell asleep just in time for the Navi Avatars to stand up and run. Nice. What beauty and spectacle! I was in love. I'm not here to give a play by play summary or even an official personal review. One cannot mistake the commentary or underlying meaning. You can always debate true love of a woman or love of having his limbs returned? Was technology or spiritual energy the true god here? Maybe one day I will review all the detours I want to take. But for now I want to be one with the Navi and their world and their beliefs.
I closed my eyes during the fighting sequences. I couldn't stomach the pain. I cursed at the Colonel and Parker for their reckless destruction. And even though I knew that Jake Sully would come around, I hated him for being such a jack ass to start. I'm a little over all the anti hero crap really. But the movie was more. I admire the age old warning of respect to nature, I was pleased to see the interconnectedness of life taken to a newer platform, and I was fascinated with the Neuromancer feel, but as natural, not machine...softer edge to the matrix. The movie was a pleasure and I could probalbly debate meanings and sequenses and philosophies and religion and politics for hours. But for now I'm going to languish on Pandora without questions.
I feel an urge to start excavating, but I know exhaustion is near. I'll have to pop it into the DVD a few more times then have vodka and a discussion party. Any takers? What a tease...even for me.
23 April 2010
The Monster Under my Bed
The whole writing thing for me is like that first dip of the season in the freshly opened pool...first the big toe, then maybe a whole foot, then back out. Then right foot followed by the left foot, and then sitting on the edge splashing my upper legs. When I finally get my whole body in it's that moment of shock, perhaps I'll call it numbing pain, and then it's as if everything is gloriously comfortable and perfect submerged in the water. Then, the next time...it's just the same old thing.
I'm a cluster writer because of this. Or maybe you say I'm not dedicated. Perhaps my writing self-esteem is lacking. Or maybe I'm afraid of what my soul may give away. Haven't I vanquished enough demons? Doesn't the world now know my deepest and darkest? Maybe, but I still keep the boogie man under my bed for safe keeping.
So what about me? Really?! After a year of nightmares, therapists, doctors, groups, articles printed and emailed, videos from the doula, and you still ask, "what about me?" Honey, get a grip...this one is not about you. And if you keep trying to get me to turn back into my co-dependent-wonderwoman-miracle-worker it ain't ever gonna happen. Seriously, am I supposed to think it's cute that you've developed a sibling rivalry with your own child? Fucking man-up, dude. Life is not cherries or chocolates or warm fluffies. It's lemon in your papercut, salt in your razor burn, and vinagar for wine.
ARrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrg. Heartburn. Exhaustion. Disgust. Disappointment.
I want my child to strive for what her heart desires: to work hard, to achieve goals, believe that anything is possible. But. But she also needs to learn that nothing is free, hard work doesn't always pay off, you can't always get what you want...and contrary to the Rolling Stones commentary on life, sometimes you don't even get what you need. I've grown sour on the motto that you can have or be anything you want if you just work hard and give it 110%. Opportunity knocks and closes doors, and you aren't always standing in the right doorway. You have to learn survival and have back up plans and know that life isn't paved in gold and dreams are to be reached for, but can't control your choices. In the end we have a lazy, self-righteous, ingracious group of adults who think it's ok to merely be. Hippies went out of fashion for a reason, and with them the notion that the Universe always provides. Go live in Haiti or Brazil or the Congo; go anywhere but here, and you'll see that it doesn't always work out in the end.
"It always works out somehow." You're kidding me right? People die. Families separate. Poverty is a fact. Pollution and disease are real. Money and power are evil. It really doesn't always work out: you just learn to be miserable and survive and shut up. And for those lucky ones that get to put on a pair of rose colored glasses and say it's half full, I'm happy for you, but I lost mine, so I hate you. Conspiracy theorist and bandwagonist are the true anti-christ, spreading messages of panic and fear in the modern people. Does anyone have original thoughts anymore? Is there really nothing new to invent? Are we really that thoughtless and careless?
I used to be an eternal optimist. I could pep talk and comfort the hardest hit. I would pick up and dust off the downtrodden, and take most of them home to mend and stregthen. They say people come in and out of your life for a reason for a time for a season. I do believe that. Or at least I did. With the advent of technology and social networking we prevent this beautiful experience from enriching our lives. We can't come and go. We can't hide and seek. We are all just bobbing in the same wave. Don't get me wrong. I am enjoying this shared moment. I love the proximity that modern technology has given me to those old and new, near and far, dear and not so much. Hey conspiracy folk - the Matrix is already here.
Who the heck is this woman? My patience. My humor. My strength. My love and peaceful nature. Maybe I gave them away. Why am I jaded and dark and pissed? The boogieman is whispering...time to close shop for the day.
I'm a cluster writer because of this. Or maybe you say I'm not dedicated. Perhaps my writing self-esteem is lacking. Or maybe I'm afraid of what my soul may give away. Haven't I vanquished enough demons? Doesn't the world now know my deepest and darkest? Maybe, but I still keep the boogie man under my bed for safe keeping.
So what about me? Really?! After a year of nightmares, therapists, doctors, groups, articles printed and emailed, videos from the doula, and you still ask, "what about me?" Honey, get a grip...this one is not about you. And if you keep trying to get me to turn back into my co-dependent-wonderwoman-miracle-worker it ain't ever gonna happen. Seriously, am I supposed to think it's cute that you've developed a sibling rivalry with your own child? Fucking man-up, dude. Life is not cherries or chocolates or warm fluffies. It's lemon in your papercut, salt in your razor burn, and vinagar for wine.
ARrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrg. Heartburn. Exhaustion. Disgust. Disappointment.
I want my child to strive for what her heart desires: to work hard, to achieve goals, believe that anything is possible. But. But she also needs to learn that nothing is free, hard work doesn't always pay off, you can't always get what you want...and contrary to the Rolling Stones commentary on life, sometimes you don't even get what you need. I've grown sour on the motto that you can have or be anything you want if you just work hard and give it 110%. Opportunity knocks and closes doors, and you aren't always standing in the right doorway. You have to learn survival and have back up plans and know that life isn't paved in gold and dreams are to be reached for, but can't control your choices. In the end we have a lazy, self-righteous, ingracious group of adults who think it's ok to merely be. Hippies went out of fashion for a reason, and with them the notion that the Universe always provides. Go live in Haiti or Brazil or the Congo; go anywhere but here, and you'll see that it doesn't always work out in the end.
"It always works out somehow." You're kidding me right? People die. Families separate. Poverty is a fact. Pollution and disease are real. Money and power are evil. It really doesn't always work out: you just learn to be miserable and survive and shut up. And for those lucky ones that get to put on a pair of rose colored glasses and say it's half full, I'm happy for you, but I lost mine, so I hate you. Conspiracy theorist and bandwagonist are the true anti-christ, spreading messages of panic and fear in the modern people. Does anyone have original thoughts anymore? Is there really nothing new to invent? Are we really that thoughtless and careless?
I used to be an eternal optimist. I could pep talk and comfort the hardest hit. I would pick up and dust off the downtrodden, and take most of them home to mend and stregthen. They say people come in and out of your life for a reason for a time for a season. I do believe that. Or at least I did. With the advent of technology and social networking we prevent this beautiful experience from enriching our lives. We can't come and go. We can't hide and seek. We are all just bobbing in the same wave. Don't get me wrong. I am enjoying this shared moment. I love the proximity that modern technology has given me to those old and new, near and far, dear and not so much. Hey conspiracy folk - the Matrix is already here.
Who the heck is this woman? My patience. My humor. My strength. My love and peaceful nature. Maybe I gave them away. Why am I jaded and dark and pissed? The boogieman is whispering...time to close shop for the day.
22 April 2010
Bounty, the quicker picker upper
More than a month past...should I apologize for being away. I'm sorry. Really. Every day I log in and then log out. Or just stare at the link, debating what to do with it. I'm confused perhaps. Have I gotten shy all of a sudden? Do I not want to share my secrets? Am I just so different that I don't feel I belong here any longer? None of that for truth.
When the fog started to lift I wanted to take in all the clarity, and I believed the more distance I put the easier it would be to comprehend. I am afraid that I was incorrect. The more time that passes the less sense I can make. The pain still jabs and I want to cry for those days yesterday, and now I want to cry for those days tomorrow. I found a new pain...the growing kind.
Anya has gone from tettering to running in moments. She gives tude and responds to what she's asked to do even though she can't really talk back. Her grunts and screams and limited sign language at a minimum help us to meander through the new connections her brain makes, and by the way I think we're getting close to those first words. She's developed a personality with a rainbow of color with her squishy smile and belly giggles. She takes running leaps and crashes to the floor; she tastes food, discarding what she doesn't like that moment as dog food - yet chooses to sneak dog food out of the bowl as a treat; she gives hugs and kisses, then turns biting, pinching and pulling like Jekyll and Hyde.
This little creature never stops.
Hubby got a part time job (thank the universe!), and maybe now the financial devestation can start to rebuild - just before total ruin. We're adjusting to the new schedule. She loves her Wednesday nanny; and, we love our Wednesday nanny. Freyja on the other hand is making the day a little too noisy, and we hope she adjusts to our weekly house guest soon - who wants a bark collar! The daily routine changes so there is never a bored blink, making it very difficult to get Anya's routine set. Poor kid, no wonder she's become so demanding. Poor mom and dad really.
Work is work and most days I have to remind myself that without my job Anya will have to live in a box under the county line bridge. Not an option. I still hate being away from her. I miss so much, and I think some of her lashing out at me is because she doesn't get enough time with me. I feel guilty. I don't want to be super mom nor do I need to be. I just want to be mom right now. But life sees it differently.
I catch myself having to change the song on the radio, like when Live, Lightening Crashes, comes on, because the words make my heart hurt. I have to change the channel on my favorite shows, like CSI and Criminal Minds, because they remind me of the dangers out there. I want revolution for this; I want to bitch smack that person; I think this person deserves the chair (mind you I'm anti-death penalty); I fear that natural disasters might separate me from my child or I can't get to her; there is terror when I think about someone grabbing her in that second I blinked; I can't stand stupidity. Now none of this paralyzes me as it did before, but Im becoming hyper vigilant...just as exhasuting.
I've got myself on good vitamins. I've started dancing again, and even got a gig teaching belly dance once a week. Who would have thought. I have to admit I needed that confidence boost. Now if I'm working out at home or lesson planning Anya tries to mimick me or turns off the TV video.
I do feel much more human than I have in 2 years. I am forcing my body to move even when it hurts...sometimes I win. A sense of humor, one of my prodigal sentiments, started to assimilate back into my emotional responses. Wow that feels good. I don't like being so serious. Maybe it's just that I can partake freely of my vodka and coffee again. What ever it is...thank you...my family thanks you...and maybe my friends will like me again. It's clean up time.
When the fog started to lift I wanted to take in all the clarity, and I believed the more distance I put the easier it would be to comprehend. I am afraid that I was incorrect. The more time that passes the less sense I can make. The pain still jabs and I want to cry for those days yesterday, and now I want to cry for those days tomorrow. I found a new pain...the growing kind.
Anya has gone from tettering to running in moments. She gives tude and responds to what she's asked to do even though she can't really talk back. Her grunts and screams and limited sign language at a minimum help us to meander through the new connections her brain makes, and by the way I think we're getting close to those first words. She's developed a personality with a rainbow of color with her squishy smile and belly giggles. She takes running leaps and crashes to the floor; she tastes food, discarding what she doesn't like that moment as dog food - yet chooses to sneak dog food out of the bowl as a treat; she gives hugs and kisses, then turns biting, pinching and pulling like Jekyll and Hyde.
This little creature never stops.
Hubby got a part time job (thank the universe!), and maybe now the financial devestation can start to rebuild - just before total ruin. We're adjusting to the new schedule. She loves her Wednesday nanny; and, we love our Wednesday nanny. Freyja on the other hand is making the day a little too noisy, and we hope she adjusts to our weekly house guest soon - who wants a bark collar! The daily routine changes so there is never a bored blink, making it very difficult to get Anya's routine set. Poor kid, no wonder she's become so demanding. Poor mom and dad really.
Work is work and most days I have to remind myself that without my job Anya will have to live in a box under the county line bridge. Not an option. I still hate being away from her. I miss so much, and I think some of her lashing out at me is because she doesn't get enough time with me. I feel guilty. I don't want to be super mom nor do I need to be. I just want to be mom right now. But life sees it differently.
I catch myself having to change the song on the radio, like when Live, Lightening Crashes, comes on, because the words make my heart hurt. I have to change the channel on my favorite shows, like CSI and Criminal Minds, because they remind me of the dangers out there. I want revolution for this; I want to bitch smack that person; I think this person deserves the chair (mind you I'm anti-death penalty); I fear that natural disasters might separate me from my child or I can't get to her; there is terror when I think about someone grabbing her in that second I blinked; I can't stand stupidity. Now none of this paralyzes me as it did before, but Im becoming hyper vigilant...just as exhasuting.
I've got myself on good vitamins. I've started dancing again, and even got a gig teaching belly dance once a week. Who would have thought. I have to admit I needed that confidence boost. Now if I'm working out at home or lesson planning Anya tries to mimick me or turns off the TV video.
I do feel much more human than I have in 2 years. I am forcing my body to move even when it hurts...sometimes I win. A sense of humor, one of my prodigal sentiments, started to assimilate back into my emotional responses. Wow that feels good. I don't like being so serious. Maybe it's just that I can partake freely of my vodka and coffee again. What ever it is...thank you...my family thanks you...and maybe my friends will like me again. It's clean up time.
16 March 2010
The 12 month Program
She stood in her purple tutu looking like a little girl. She toddled around fascinated by the colorful presents stacked in the corner and the strange little folk, just her size, invading her play area. The grown ups fawned over her walking skills and her gestures of affection. A special day just for her; a secret special day for mommy. We all gathered in our home on the day of the 2010 monsoon to celebrate the passing of a year; my little Anastasia turned one. I looked at a picture from moments after her arrival, and realized that time is precious and fleeting, and a year of growing and evolving into this little human passed by while I blinked. My little 6 pound 19 inch crying and sleeping bundle morphed into a 20 pound 29 inch mini-being, with an attitude and personality all her own. No longer my baby, but my little girl.
Everyone said to me that she won't remember her 1st birthday so take care not to go overboard. I listened to a point: balloons and paper plates, snacks and homemade cake, no special games or decor or themes or grande feast. She may not remember, but I will. This 1st birthday was less of a milestone for her than it was for me, the anniversary of becoming a mommy. All I needed was to watch her spend her day exploring and enjoying the adventure.
Reflecting on the past year produces a headache and tumbling stomach. I feel agitated and frustrated and something I can only comprehend as guilt. So much pain, physical and emotional, taint this first year of her life. Part of me hears the cliche that children are resilient, she will remember nothing of her mother's struggles, nor will they affect her evolution. The other part of me screams LIAR. Children are fragile, dependent creatures affected by their environment every moment, every breath: just because they cannot voice their part of the suffering doesn't mean that they are unscathed.
Modern mothers tell themselves what they must to make it through the day. Our lives are different from our parents or grandparents. We don't live with or close to our families and most need dual incomes or more to survive. We don't know our neighbors, and if we do, we may wish we didn't. The village no longer supports the family; we leave ourselves stripped of the community energy. We are the post-women's lib generation with its pros and cons effecting every aspect of our daily lives. We want to work, be independent and strong; we want equal pay and responsiblity, and we want to be a mother and wife and keep house and socialize. Somewhere in there something has to give. How do we justify it? Why do we think we have to be superwomen or super human to have worth and value?
I see woman who fall victim to the Jones' mentality, and treat their children like pawns in the game of who has or hasn't. We voyeuristically accept this as normal through our reality TV extravaganzas. This hurts our children and creates generations of adults who feel entitled and don't understand the word no. When did love turn into money. Money is both a necessity and a luxury, but it is not equal to the emotion that is shared by people that produces sentiments of fondness, appreciation, respect and affection. Love is not something tangible. Love is when my daughter reaches up to caress my cheek or twirl my hair. Love is her giggle and hugs. We've forgotten what is important, perhaps, or maybe we have just chosen to turn our back.
Long ago I lost my faith in popular religion. I spent 8 years in Catholic school and my entire life in the Greek orthodox faith. I watched my father painfully lose his on his death bed, and that crushed me even more. I know I need something to believe in, and science doesn't cut it. Do I believe in God or gods or Powers that Be? Some days. What I respect about religion and its faith is its determination to bring harmony to an otherwise chaotic life (and death). I appreciate the ethics and fair treatment that inevitably leaches through the preachings: not so much the morals, but the values. I stand in conflict wanting my child to learn the community lessons of faith, but me being too lazy and uninterested to wade through the church services. I know I can find support there amoungst the believers, but shame keeps my distance. To teach my child good values and ethics and respect I stand against this wall. Society has turned religion into a war or falicy or cult, but I need to find a way to surmount to instill its side effects into my daughter. I need to figure out how to rasie my child in a world that seems menacing and hateful without boundaries or respect.
Rewinding a year in my mind is sort of like falling down the rabbit hole: moments flashed and thoughts passed, nothing really clear; some things seem larger and others smaller and time doesn't exist or exists too vividly. I know I see my mother as a different being now. I forgive her for things I blamed her for, and respect her for things I didn't understand. And this is only the beginning, I know. I weep for my hurts and her hurts and all the hurts of my ancestral mothers. I have a new hurt for those who will never come to this place of womens hurts. A mother's pain from birth to the ends of time is a blessing. Now I can see my year in review and not resent how I felt or even the fog that blinded my path.
I think about being a teenager and how horrid (and stupid) I behaved. The suffering I caused my parents I can never take back. The nights of fear and tears that they shed for my stupidity tear at my heart. I know now how even minutes after curfew must have ripped my parents to pieces with fear. The need to protect and guide is so powerful, so instinctual, so fierce. My child will hurt and be hurt and I cannot stop it from happening. For all my parents did to help me navigate this life, I still hurt. They made mistakes, but we are human and fallible and don't know the questions to 42. I spent hours, days, weeks, and months crying to be with my daughter every moment of her early breaths. I needed to protect her from the world. I couldn't comprehend how to manage this life and motherhood because there is too much dark in the world. I resented the life I brought her into because it wasn't ideal. I hated the causes of my pain. The love I feel for her cannot be touched, explained or compared. My inability to comprehend this rush of emotion raged within me, and still does, but with filters now.
So far away from my beginning I've wandered. My daughter turned 1 yesterday.
The party brought friends from near and far and family members to share our moments. I felt happiness and contentment for the first time in ages as I flitted about the day less concerned about perfection and more concerned about the miracle of childhood. I watched in amazement as she moved about the house inspecting all her visitors and experimented with new tastes and made friends and the curiosity that passed behind her eyes. The friends that have grown with me helped make the day easy. I love my friends dearly for being a part of my family, and for welcoming Anya into their hearts too. The day was spent early with a happy and tired little lady nestled in my lap sucking her thumb, dreaming of the day's strange adventures and treasures.
At 8:33pm on March 15th I snuggled in bed with House on TV and the lights out and kissed my baby girl a Happy Birthday.
Everyone said to me that she won't remember her 1st birthday so take care not to go overboard. I listened to a point: balloons and paper plates, snacks and homemade cake, no special games or decor or themes or grande feast. She may not remember, but I will. This 1st birthday was less of a milestone for her than it was for me, the anniversary of becoming a mommy. All I needed was to watch her spend her day exploring and enjoying the adventure.
Reflecting on the past year produces a headache and tumbling stomach. I feel agitated and frustrated and something I can only comprehend as guilt. So much pain, physical and emotional, taint this first year of her life. Part of me hears the cliche that children are resilient, she will remember nothing of her mother's struggles, nor will they affect her evolution. The other part of me screams LIAR. Children are fragile, dependent creatures affected by their environment every moment, every breath: just because they cannot voice their part of the suffering doesn't mean that they are unscathed.
Modern mothers tell themselves what they must to make it through the day. Our lives are different from our parents or grandparents. We don't live with or close to our families and most need dual incomes or more to survive. We don't know our neighbors, and if we do, we may wish we didn't. The village no longer supports the family; we leave ourselves stripped of the community energy. We are the post-women's lib generation with its pros and cons effecting every aspect of our daily lives. We want to work, be independent and strong; we want equal pay and responsiblity, and we want to be a mother and wife and keep house and socialize. Somewhere in there something has to give. How do we justify it? Why do we think we have to be superwomen or super human to have worth and value?
I see woman who fall victim to the Jones' mentality, and treat their children like pawns in the game of who has or hasn't. We voyeuristically accept this as normal through our reality TV extravaganzas. This hurts our children and creates generations of adults who feel entitled and don't understand the word no. When did love turn into money. Money is both a necessity and a luxury, but it is not equal to the emotion that is shared by people that produces sentiments of fondness, appreciation, respect and affection. Love is not something tangible. Love is when my daughter reaches up to caress my cheek or twirl my hair. Love is her giggle and hugs. We've forgotten what is important, perhaps, or maybe we have just chosen to turn our back.
Long ago I lost my faith in popular religion. I spent 8 years in Catholic school and my entire life in the Greek orthodox faith. I watched my father painfully lose his on his death bed, and that crushed me even more. I know I need something to believe in, and science doesn't cut it. Do I believe in God or gods or Powers that Be? Some days. What I respect about religion and its faith is its determination to bring harmony to an otherwise chaotic life (and death). I appreciate the ethics and fair treatment that inevitably leaches through the preachings: not so much the morals, but the values. I stand in conflict wanting my child to learn the community lessons of faith, but me being too lazy and uninterested to wade through the church services. I know I can find support there amoungst the believers, but shame keeps my distance. To teach my child good values and ethics and respect I stand against this wall. Society has turned religion into a war or falicy or cult, but I need to find a way to surmount to instill its side effects into my daughter. I need to figure out how to rasie my child in a world that seems menacing and hateful without boundaries or respect.
Rewinding a year in my mind is sort of like falling down the rabbit hole: moments flashed and thoughts passed, nothing really clear; some things seem larger and others smaller and time doesn't exist or exists too vividly. I know I see my mother as a different being now. I forgive her for things I blamed her for, and respect her for things I didn't understand. And this is only the beginning, I know. I weep for my hurts and her hurts and all the hurts of my ancestral mothers. I have a new hurt for those who will never come to this place of womens hurts. A mother's pain from birth to the ends of time is a blessing. Now I can see my year in review and not resent how I felt or even the fog that blinded my path.
I think about being a teenager and how horrid (and stupid) I behaved. The suffering I caused my parents I can never take back. The nights of fear and tears that they shed for my stupidity tear at my heart. I know now how even minutes after curfew must have ripped my parents to pieces with fear. The need to protect and guide is so powerful, so instinctual, so fierce. My child will hurt and be hurt and I cannot stop it from happening. For all my parents did to help me navigate this life, I still hurt. They made mistakes, but we are human and fallible and don't know the questions to 42. I spent hours, days, weeks, and months crying to be with my daughter every moment of her early breaths. I needed to protect her from the world. I couldn't comprehend how to manage this life and motherhood because there is too much dark in the world. I resented the life I brought her into because it wasn't ideal. I hated the causes of my pain. The love I feel for her cannot be touched, explained or compared. My inability to comprehend this rush of emotion raged within me, and still does, but with filters now.
So far away from my beginning I've wandered. My daughter turned 1 yesterday.
The party brought friends from near and far and family members to share our moments. I felt happiness and contentment for the first time in ages as I flitted about the day less concerned about perfection and more concerned about the miracle of childhood. I watched in amazement as she moved about the house inspecting all her visitors and experimented with new tastes and made friends and the curiosity that passed behind her eyes. The friends that have grown with me helped make the day easy. I love my friends dearly for being a part of my family, and for welcoming Anya into their hearts too. The day was spent early with a happy and tired little lady nestled in my lap sucking her thumb, dreaming of the day's strange adventures and treasures.
At 8:33pm on March 15th I snuggled in bed with House on TV and the lights out and kissed my baby girl a Happy Birthday.
09 March 2010
My Merry-Go-Round
Signs of spring are everywhere. I can smell it in the air...well mostly just sneeze. The icebergs that dominated our landscape these past few months disappear more each day. Some poor bulbs try to poke through the thawing landscape, and mud, dark, brown, wet, mud everywhere. It's refreshing to see the sun, blinding as it may be. O and the beauty of light beyond 6pm delights my sensibilities. Most people call spring the season of hope. Even the Christians with their Easter holiday capitalize on the emotions the spring thaw instills in the people. I use to feel renewed myself, but not so much this year.
Am I better, honestly, I should say mostly. But am I well, not a chance. The fog that tried to choke me for the better part of last year has lifted and I see blue skies. I'm sleeping more hours at a time, but not through the night. I'm restless with random insomnia...looks like a trait my little peanut has inherited as well. We both toss and turn and sit bolt upright at random intervals in the dark. Did we hear something? Do we smell something? What thoughts burst through our slumber so regularly? Whatever causes us to lose precious moments of sleep I despise. Some nights we manage a full 6 to 7 hours...but ahh those nights are rare. Mostly we're on a 4 hour holding pattern, better than every hour on the hour, but still not optimal.
With those blue skies I bear witness to the burning orange of the sun. The fiery ball inferno that blinds and engulfs...not life giving warmth, but rage that stirs beneath, seizing when opportunity arrives. My ocean of clarity is not the calm blue sea but a tumultus anger. Some of it I can justify. We've been on a down trend of luck for some time now. Where's that Harry Potter vial of prized potion? Generally I'm not an angry person. I use to be the epitomy of patience and trust and optimism. I use to love people and conversation and opinions. I use to relish in a good debate and sharing of stories. I'm impatient and short and stabby...my adventurous piscean senses have turned dolphin to shark. I don't like my new world vision. I'm cynical and distrusting. My ability to be open to perspectives diminishes daily. I can't tolerate ignorance, stupidity and lies.
Everywhere I look I see sadness, pain, loss, fear. I see a world out of novels. People...humanity...lost. Sounds a bit dramatic, and I feel obligated to apologize, but I won't. Perhaps the veil is my own devise. Maybe I'm inflicting it upon the world at large. Perhaps I should take note of my female compatriots during the industrial revolution. The soot and dirt that tainted their food, clothing and breath is not so much different that our 0s and 1s encoding the technologial revolution of present.
Where are the neighborhood children playing in the streets and turning the entire neighborhood into a game of tag? Where are the farmers providing local fare at the more affordable prices - when it's cheaper to buy a big mac than a salad there is something seriously wrong with our priorities. Think of those famous works of art from a time not so long ago. It was vogue to have girth because that meant you had money to buy food. And those wane and feeble were the peasant class who barely had bread or porridge to calm their grumbling bellies. Now the overweight and obese are the poor and the super-model thin are the wealthy; the poor can only afford the worst foods and the weathly have nutritionists and organic meals prepared for them. Pfft. When the government feels it's their responsibility to remove freedoms of one to placate another someone hasn't read the constitution. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for safety, but making rules for rules sake and ignoring the more important larger issues at hand has become a staple for our government and takes precious time and attention away from the plagues that sicken our nation every day. The people take itty bitty dislikes and turn them into life or death decisions instead of letting the human race evolve as it has for thousands of years.
Something as ridicuouls as Snuffalupugus being made real because imagination is bad - the bandwagon perception of 20+ years ago - now snuffed out too late - told generations that thought and invention was detrimental to society. We created zombies of ignorance. We let the fairies and invisible creatures of wonder back into our children's lives again. But we also gave them TV and internet and Nintendo. The adventures they have are simulated, shared imaginations. Will we have another Einstein or Ben Franklin or Motzart or Fitzgerald or Michelangelo? Who will fill Baryshnikov's shoes or Sinatra's microphone? The arts are relegated to starving artists - the free thinkers and risk takers cast out of society's mainstream for failing to drone. Theaters and novels are outdated ideas: IMax and Kindle take any adventure away from the human experience.
I caught myself watching Disney's classic Snow White the other night and thinking how they should re-dub the voices for a modern sound. Shame on me. I disgust myself.
I'm entranced by Muse. The music revolutionists of my choice: angry enough, intelligent enough, loud enough, and controversial enough to feed my thoughts.
The healthy institutions of yesterday entrap today. Money: real estate, banks, hedge funds, bonds, oil, natural gas, biofuel, everyone wants a piece. Marriage is disposable...and so are children. I've watched so many of my peers suffer through the challenges of infertility: some with success, some without. Then there are those graced with the gift of parenthood who abandon and murder the helpless humans of tomorrow. Forget about the gangs and pediphiles and drugs that destroy senslessly. Natural disasters cause enough death and suffering, yet the human race still behaves in its primeaval ways. Communities fail their people. No the people fail their communities. Two income households are no longer a luxury, but a necessity. Our nuclear family seems quaint and so American, yet we've lost the bond of family and support of our neighbors. Our grandparents are in homes for the dying. Our children are raised by strangers. Our 24 hour day is spent providing service to the machine rather than enjoying this temporary life. Ugh, Who am I?!
I'm not sure who speaks my voice. My head hurts from fighting myself. I've become someone that I don't know and I'm not sure I like. Out of the fog into the fire.
I don't want my child to lose her hope. I want her to learn to love life and the natural world. I want her to play with her imaginary and real life friends...in person. I want her to learn value and respect and loyalty. I want to feel that she is safe. I need to turn off the news and close the papers with their fascination of the morbid and horror. People need to re-learn respect and selflessness. We seem to have forgotten that we can't take it with us and we need each other. We've lost any sense and form of balance. We've lost the reality of time. We put ourselves here, but do we care enough to save ourselves and each other.
My precious gift is turning 1. I've lost a year of my life, and what should have been one of the best years of my life. At every stage I've looked upon her feeling like this was the best stage of all. I understand why a time comes to pass that we want to have another. The rational side of me says that children are resilient and she will never remember what her mother suffered during those early days; she won't remember my sorrow, my physical ills, or my disillusionment; she won't remember my impatience and confusion. But something deeper makes me think that children aren't as we have convinced ourselves to believe. They are fragile. I'm trying to become the mother I've always wanted to be. Some days I have the strength. I'm looking to breeze to sing me my hope.
Am I better, honestly, I should say mostly. But am I well, not a chance. The fog that tried to choke me for the better part of last year has lifted and I see blue skies. I'm sleeping more hours at a time, but not through the night. I'm restless with random insomnia...looks like a trait my little peanut has inherited as well. We both toss and turn and sit bolt upright at random intervals in the dark. Did we hear something? Do we smell something? What thoughts burst through our slumber so regularly? Whatever causes us to lose precious moments of sleep I despise. Some nights we manage a full 6 to 7 hours...but ahh those nights are rare. Mostly we're on a 4 hour holding pattern, better than every hour on the hour, but still not optimal.
With those blue skies I bear witness to the burning orange of the sun. The fiery ball inferno that blinds and engulfs...not life giving warmth, but rage that stirs beneath, seizing when opportunity arrives. My ocean of clarity is not the calm blue sea but a tumultus anger. Some of it I can justify. We've been on a down trend of luck for some time now. Where's that Harry Potter vial of prized potion? Generally I'm not an angry person. I use to be the epitomy of patience and trust and optimism. I use to love people and conversation and opinions. I use to relish in a good debate and sharing of stories. I'm impatient and short and stabby...my adventurous piscean senses have turned dolphin to shark. I don't like my new world vision. I'm cynical and distrusting. My ability to be open to perspectives diminishes daily. I can't tolerate ignorance, stupidity and lies.
Everywhere I look I see sadness, pain, loss, fear. I see a world out of novels. People...humanity...lost. Sounds a bit dramatic, and I feel obligated to apologize, but I won't. Perhaps the veil is my own devise. Maybe I'm inflicting it upon the world at large. Perhaps I should take note of my female compatriots during the industrial revolution. The soot and dirt that tainted their food, clothing and breath is not so much different that our 0s and 1s encoding the technologial revolution of present.
Where are the neighborhood children playing in the streets and turning the entire neighborhood into a game of tag? Where are the farmers providing local fare at the more affordable prices - when it's cheaper to buy a big mac than a salad there is something seriously wrong with our priorities. Think of those famous works of art from a time not so long ago. It was vogue to have girth because that meant you had money to buy food. And those wane and feeble were the peasant class who barely had bread or porridge to calm their grumbling bellies. Now the overweight and obese are the poor and the super-model thin are the wealthy; the poor can only afford the worst foods and the weathly have nutritionists and organic meals prepared for them. Pfft. When the government feels it's their responsibility to remove freedoms of one to placate another someone hasn't read the constitution. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for safety, but making rules for rules sake and ignoring the more important larger issues at hand has become a staple for our government and takes precious time and attention away from the plagues that sicken our nation every day. The people take itty bitty dislikes and turn them into life or death decisions instead of letting the human race evolve as it has for thousands of years.
Something as ridicuouls as Snuffalupugus being made real because imagination is bad - the bandwagon perception of 20+ years ago - now snuffed out too late - told generations that thought and invention was detrimental to society. We created zombies of ignorance. We let the fairies and invisible creatures of wonder back into our children's lives again. But we also gave them TV and internet and Nintendo. The adventures they have are simulated, shared imaginations. Will we have another Einstein or Ben Franklin or Motzart or Fitzgerald or Michelangelo? Who will fill Baryshnikov's shoes or Sinatra's microphone? The arts are relegated to starving artists - the free thinkers and risk takers cast out of society's mainstream for failing to drone. Theaters and novels are outdated ideas: IMax and Kindle take any adventure away from the human experience.
I caught myself watching Disney's classic Snow White the other night and thinking how they should re-dub the voices for a modern sound. Shame on me. I disgust myself.
I'm entranced by Muse. The music revolutionists of my choice: angry enough, intelligent enough, loud enough, and controversial enough to feed my thoughts.
The healthy institutions of yesterday entrap today. Money: real estate, banks, hedge funds, bonds, oil, natural gas, biofuel, everyone wants a piece. Marriage is disposable...and so are children. I've watched so many of my peers suffer through the challenges of infertility: some with success, some without. Then there are those graced with the gift of parenthood who abandon and murder the helpless humans of tomorrow. Forget about the gangs and pediphiles and drugs that destroy senslessly. Natural disasters cause enough death and suffering, yet the human race still behaves in its primeaval ways. Communities fail their people. No the people fail their communities. Two income households are no longer a luxury, but a necessity. Our nuclear family seems quaint and so American, yet we've lost the bond of family and support of our neighbors. Our grandparents are in homes for the dying. Our children are raised by strangers. Our 24 hour day is spent providing service to the machine rather than enjoying this temporary life. Ugh, Who am I?!
I'm not sure who speaks my voice. My head hurts from fighting myself. I've become someone that I don't know and I'm not sure I like. Out of the fog into the fire.
I don't want my child to lose her hope. I want her to learn to love life and the natural world. I want her to play with her imaginary and real life friends...in person. I want her to learn value and respect and loyalty. I want to feel that she is safe. I need to turn off the news and close the papers with their fascination of the morbid and horror. People need to re-learn respect and selflessness. We seem to have forgotten that we can't take it with us and we need each other. We've lost any sense and form of balance. We've lost the reality of time. We put ourselves here, but do we care enough to save ourselves and each other.
My precious gift is turning 1. I've lost a year of my life, and what should have been one of the best years of my life. At every stage I've looked upon her feeling like this was the best stage of all. I understand why a time comes to pass that we want to have another. The rational side of me says that children are resilient and she will never remember what her mother suffered during those early days; she won't remember my sorrow, my physical ills, or my disillusionment; she won't remember my impatience and confusion. But something deeper makes me think that children aren't as we have convinced ourselves to believe. They are fragile. I'm trying to become the mother I've always wanted to be. Some days I have the strength. I'm looking to breeze to sing me my hope.
16 February 2010
For what it's worth
I have something to say. I'm sure of it. I'm blank though. Dark and empty. I don't even know how to feel. I'm angry and sad and just fed up. I'm tired too. Another morning of white outs on my drive. I used to love the snow and a free work from home day and eating comfort food, and not always French Toast like the rest of the locals. I had to leave the house. I needed to get to the office, tired and blah.
For the first time in almost 2 years we went out to a bar to have a drink and grab some junk food and listen to some friends take us back to a time when life seemed more simple. I showered and curled my hair and put on makeup and a cute little outfit of black. Slimming you know. My sis came over to play with Anya and get her to sleep so we could enjoy a few hours of us time. We met friends and enjoyed a clanking of the glasses in honor of our little adventure. A lot of chatting and a smokless bar of 20 somethings made me feel bored and tired much sooner than I had hoped. I didn't, however, feel the urge to call home.
As the clock neared 10 I felt myself nodding. Geesh one beer and I'm a gonner; it doesn't help that I'm up all night with the baby and at work by 7am. I think Fridays are the hardest day to survive let alone try to extend into the hours of the moon. I tugged on his shirt for the whatever time, asking if we could head out before I embarassed myself by falling asleep at the table. He rolled his eyes, ordered another beer and walked away. We stayed for quite a few songs and I finally stood up and put on my coat. With much resistance and obvious pissed-off-ness (if you can allow me) he stood up and we walked to the car. I said thank you, we were home and I went to bed.
The next day was full of distraction and visiting and by the time we arrived home it was past bed time. The baby and I shuffled off to bed and left him to play the Wii for a few more hours. I woke up alone save for my little precious nestled beside me. I wake up alone on most mornings because we can't get the baby out of the family bed and he feels cramped, or he ate something he shouldn't and was stinky, or he had insomnia, or he fell asleep on the couch. But this...this was Valentine's Day. The day I've always resented as a Hallmark day that should be scoffed at or ignored. But married now I tried to feel something akin to smugness. Instead I woke up feeling single and unattractive and alone. The same thing I have always felt, and I was seething. I dropped the baby in his lap in the spare room and slammed our bedroom door shut.
I tried to fall back asleep and ignore my guilt and the tantrums downstairs. I tried to enjoy a little more time to settle my rage and change my attitude. After a half hour of tossing and tears I dressed and went down, picked up the baby and hugged her tight. I helped with her breakfast and had a snack myself and attempted to have a day that wasn't burdened with explosions. I don't know when or how long or what prompted the comment, but at some point I was standing in the kitchen, doing the dishes maybe. Or was I at the computer checking email. In any case, he walked up to me and said, "For what it's worth Happy Valentine's Day." And he walked away.
Since we weren't planning on going out to dinner we invited some friends over to eat with us. We went to the grocery store and took early naps and bathed the baby. At some point I even tried to get intimate, but was ignored. So. We busied ourselves with cooking and the dog and picking up around the house. Dinner was a great success and by nightfall the tension had dispersed a bit, or was it the beer and lots of chocolate. Shortly after I went to bed he followed and we all slept.
The next day we had some work around the house: forward momentum was a must. Crabby, learning-to-walk baby and dishes and pesky dog and plain old end of the weekend blues - a three day weekend no less - made the day seem restless and unwelcome. We set off in stages moving the books from the first to the third floor and rearranging everything so it looked nice and neat again. The motion and movement was a welcome outlet to my frustration. The evening ended with homemade soup and exhaustion.
I'm just empty. I feel sorry for the world we brought our angel into. I'm a fighter. I don't give up, especially on something that I believe in. But I'm dangling. The blame is on me; he said he doesn't care. He refuses to take even half the burden from me. I don't want to go down a path darker than this crossroads, I will hold on because I must. When is enough enough. When can I be angry.
For the first time in almost 2 years we went out to a bar to have a drink and grab some junk food and listen to some friends take us back to a time when life seemed more simple. I showered and curled my hair and put on makeup and a cute little outfit of black. Slimming you know. My sis came over to play with Anya and get her to sleep so we could enjoy a few hours of us time. We met friends and enjoyed a clanking of the glasses in honor of our little adventure. A lot of chatting and a smokless bar of 20 somethings made me feel bored and tired much sooner than I had hoped. I didn't, however, feel the urge to call home.
As the clock neared 10 I felt myself nodding. Geesh one beer and I'm a gonner; it doesn't help that I'm up all night with the baby and at work by 7am. I think Fridays are the hardest day to survive let alone try to extend into the hours of the moon. I tugged on his shirt for the whatever time, asking if we could head out before I embarassed myself by falling asleep at the table. He rolled his eyes, ordered another beer and walked away. We stayed for quite a few songs and I finally stood up and put on my coat. With much resistance and obvious pissed-off-ness (if you can allow me) he stood up and we walked to the car. I said thank you, we were home and I went to bed.
The next day was full of distraction and visiting and by the time we arrived home it was past bed time. The baby and I shuffled off to bed and left him to play the Wii for a few more hours. I woke up alone save for my little precious nestled beside me. I wake up alone on most mornings because we can't get the baby out of the family bed and he feels cramped, or he ate something he shouldn't and was stinky, or he had insomnia, or he fell asleep on the couch. But this...this was Valentine's Day. The day I've always resented as a Hallmark day that should be scoffed at or ignored. But married now I tried to feel something akin to smugness. Instead I woke up feeling single and unattractive and alone. The same thing I have always felt, and I was seething. I dropped the baby in his lap in the spare room and slammed our bedroom door shut.
I tried to fall back asleep and ignore my guilt and the tantrums downstairs. I tried to enjoy a little more time to settle my rage and change my attitude. After a half hour of tossing and tears I dressed and went down, picked up the baby and hugged her tight. I helped with her breakfast and had a snack myself and attempted to have a day that wasn't burdened with explosions. I don't know when or how long or what prompted the comment, but at some point I was standing in the kitchen, doing the dishes maybe. Or was I at the computer checking email. In any case, he walked up to me and said, "For what it's worth Happy Valentine's Day." And he walked away.
Since we weren't planning on going out to dinner we invited some friends over to eat with us. We went to the grocery store and took early naps and bathed the baby. At some point I even tried to get intimate, but was ignored. So. We busied ourselves with cooking and the dog and picking up around the house. Dinner was a great success and by nightfall the tension had dispersed a bit, or was it the beer and lots of chocolate. Shortly after I went to bed he followed and we all slept.
The next day we had some work around the house: forward momentum was a must. Crabby, learning-to-walk baby and dishes and pesky dog and plain old end of the weekend blues - a three day weekend no less - made the day seem restless and unwelcome. We set off in stages moving the books from the first to the third floor and rearranging everything so it looked nice and neat again. The motion and movement was a welcome outlet to my frustration. The evening ended with homemade soup and exhaustion.
I'm just empty. I feel sorry for the world we brought our angel into. I'm a fighter. I don't give up, especially on something that I believe in. But I'm dangling. The blame is on me; he said he doesn't care. He refuses to take even half the burden from me. I don't want to go down a path darker than this crossroads, I will hold on because I must. When is enough enough. When can I be angry.
04 February 2010
The Land of the Living Lost
Gasp...plunge. Two points to fragility. A three pointer to the abyss.
Now really. Is this necessary?! How much can one person take? I'm sick and tired and hateful. I can't listen to anymore do-gooder platitudes and niceties along with their pats on the back and false smiles. I'm sick of the bile burning in my throat. I'm tired of my shoulders in my ears and the hammer in my head. I resent the liars, cheats, destroyers of life. I'm numb from constant combustion. I sink into the scortched frozen lands far from Elysium. A zombie. Sterile and pointless.
Faith? Hope? Justice? All dead. See their beautiful landmarks in the endless green? Ahhhh...Here lies Faith, reads the angel Gabriel perched high in concrete splendor, the mother of love and promises of protection. May she rest in peace. Over there the marble room houses her daughter Hope. Hope was larger than life, and life destroyed her in jealousy. What a lovely resting place for such a grand princess. Now Justice...far off in the corner, simple...ignored. Her stone reads...Justice was slayed by the human race, flawed and ugly with their greed and lies.
Don't worry, this too shall pass. You are only given what you are strong enough to face. You will get through this. There are people in far worse situations. Be grateful for what you have. What doesn't kill you will make you stronger. You have to think only of your daughter and family. Stop panicking. You will be ok. It will all work out in the end. Don't question what is.
The justice system failed since he with the most money wins...and let me take what you don't have and your ends won't meet. All because of a part time job that he never would have taken if any of that were true.
My head is exploding and my eyes bulging and under my fingernails bleed. My body keeps twitching and my mouth is dry. My teeth hurt and I taste iron in my throat. My lungs are flaming with each breath. I'm thirsty. I'm thirsty. I'm thirsty.
I give up. I really do. Every time I feel like I've gotten a grip and I can move along something new comes at me and now I'm buried. I'm walking the fields looking for my lost beliefs. They are all here. Eating worms. I don't have the strenght to dig them up. Maybe I'll just sit here under this tree. I worked too hard to watch my life crumble like the mortar in my basement.
My basement. It's a scary place - all stone and crumbling mortar - spiders and creepy crawlies are freeloading residents. The inspector said it was in great condition...the foundation is solid. The house I live in was built in 1880. The day we saw our house we knew it was ours. It felt like ours. We felt it call to us to bring life back to its halls. We had looked at so many houses already with dismay, and this house we had crossed off our list, but we needed to kill time. And this house...this was the one. The man and his wife before us lived amoungst the things of several generations and the filth of 7 years that they couldn't let go. Our realtor held a tissue to her nose as we walked through the devastation of the zombie life. The husband was physically, and from our perception emotionally, broken. He walked room to room with us pointing out the love that he wanted to give the house, but couldn't. We walked along enchanted by the house itself: the transom windows, porcelain knobs, original mouldings, plaster walls, original light fixtures, wavy glass windows, three stories of advnture. The man and his wife were losing this house, this home, to the bank. But we were going to save it we promised.
Our offer went in and the games began. O another offer has come in...same specs...what's your second offer...we have to move settlement date...he did get the grass cut...we need to make it later. Two months of nail biting and determination and settlement day arrived. We arrived at the house excited as first time homeowners to do the walk thru...ahhh we would get to see the house empty. The day had other plans...the man and his wife who had moved into a new home two weeks before had not vacated the property and in no way was it broom swept - our relator wouldn't even let us in the house. The flurry of a devils doing unraveled.
Our relator feverishly got on the phone with others from her office and the man and wife's realtor. What to do now? How can this go through? What...it went into foreclosure today? He's swinging an axe in the yard yelling at the hauler you sent. Do they still want to go through with it? I sat on the curb and cried. Yes, we wanted this house. But. 3 hours after our scheduled settlement on the Friday of Memorial Day weekend we were wisked to the realtor office and told that we would do this in separate rooms and we wouldn't have to see the man and his wife. We will build in left over monies from settlement to pay for a hauling company to come back tomorrow, the man is not right in the head, the wife's son needs this house sold, we will add a clause that forbids him from returning to the property...you could call the police if he does. If we really want this we can do this. They aren't making anything on the house...they owe too much. Let me know what you want to do. Papers signed, we were handed the keys, and we had to wait until tomorrow to go back to the property that we technically owned today.
Our relator is one of my best friends. We were her first, and last client. She gave me a hug, handed me a card and bottle of champagne and said she was sorry for our experience. But we were happy, we loved our new house. We were happy it was finally ours. We would build our first home together here...our wedding was four months away. Plenty of time to bring this house to life once more.
The next day I arrived at the new house alone. The haulers that were ordered would arrive by 9am. I had an hour to walk through alone for the first time since we decided we wanted to buy this house. I unlocked the door, whose lock would be changed in a few hours, and walked inside. I knew Nance said it was bad. And I expected bad, but this was living hell. The stench was suffocating and I couldn't open the windows. I held my Teeshirt to my nose and did my own walk through.
The tears...they started...and I couldn't stop them. The kitchen brought on dry heaves. The sink was full of dishes and cat food and unidentifyable morsels. The refridgerator was filled to bursting with spoiled food years expired, and jars, and cans, and boxes of leftovers...how could they live like this. The bathroom tub was filled with mud and more dishes and mud and junk. The floors were covered with animal urine and feces and trash and more trash. The dining room hosted floor to celing phone books from years gone by from locations near and far and wires and cables and newspapers and debris. The living room no longer even had a path. I was afraid to go upstairs. I walked into the first room and saw it just as I had on our first seeing. The fly paper still hung from the ceiling next to the dead mother's bed. I gaged. The master bedroom was devoid of furniture but unwalkable with debris: pictures, clothing, dishes, chachkis, junk. I didn't even walk up to the third floor. I ran down the stairs and out the door and burst into sobs. What had we done. Hyperventilating I called Rich to tell him it was worse than we thought and I don't know what to do. He reminded me that the haulers would be here soon and he'll be over as soon as he was done work, and so would my sisters with some bleach and rags.
The haulers arrived in parade fashion with their dump truck and pick ups and dungareed treasure seekers. They saw me slumped and bleary eyed on the porch stairs, introduced themselves, and said that when they were done I will be able to call it my own. I warned them that it was ugly, and they replied, "we've seen everything, don't worry." I mostly stayed out of their way and watched in amazement how they systematically went room by room, they decided to call in more recruits and work separately. They pryed off the storms from some of the windows and let the air in. They stripped the caulk from the balcony door and swung it wide. They pulled the dump truck on the lawn and just tossed from second and thrid story...look out below. Every once in a while I would hear one of them call out...look what I found...and every once in a while they would ask if I wanted to keep something. Then at some point I saw it pull up...the blue PT cruiser and the man and his wife dove into the dumpster after their things.
The haulers told me to stay in the house and they would take care of everything, and if need be they would call the police. They will take care of this too. I was paralysed. I began to feel dirt like never before. I knew I smelled like the house. Now that stacks and piles were disappearing I realized that the entire house, floor to ceiling was grey. Everything everywhere grey. I felt grey. I couldn't eat or drink. I had no one left to call. I waited and watched and held doors and bought hoagies from the deli across the street for my miracle workers. At times I felt a pang for the man and his wife. How did they get so desparate? What happened to their lives? Were they always like this? How sad to watch your family history tossed with giggles into a dumpster. Then I looked around and my pang turned to anger. How could they let this happen?
8 hours, 4 dump trucks, 9 haulers, a hundred rubber gloves, 5 brooms, thousands of trash bags...and they were gone.
My sister came with 4 gallons of bleach and more rubber gloves and buckets and brooms. We filled the buckets and started in the kitchen and bathroom. We bleached the fixtures, the floors, the walls, the moulding, the doors, the sinks, the closets, and the shelves. Then we worked our way into the main house and tried to get some grime from the windows and woodwork before we collapsed. When she felt as grey as I, she stood up and said I'm sorry. I thanked her, and she left for a shower or sandblaster to clean up. By the time my husband came the house was empty and smelled of bleach and urine. He entered and instantly turned grey. But he hadn't seen what I had. And never would know what it felt like when the house took its first breath after 7 years. I felt the shutter and the heard the creeking and I wiped my forehead and said tomorrow we pull up the rugs.
That next day Erica came. We donned masks and rubber gloves and clothes we'd be willing to throw away and cut and tore and shredded the carpets. Floor by floor room by room we lifted one layer of grey out of the house. The stench was corrosive, and the sticky ickiness left our stomachs upside down. We worked for hours until the daylight started to sag. Once we lifted the carpets we found rug sized linoleum: we lifted the linoleum to find newspaper from 1943. We read headlines of WWII and the comics eerily maintained their brilliant color. We saw advertisements and sale fliers from $.10 bread and and $2.00 dresses. We hollared from one room to the next about the secret news under the floors. For scattered moments the house told us her stories.
We surveyed the house now bare of all carpet and bleach now penetrating the urine burn, and felt that she was thanking us. One last item before we said good night...the stove...the avacado green stove with broken glass and food particles in its belly...needed to go to the curb. We all heaved and hauled it outside amidst the piles of rolled grey bound in duck tape. The green was so faded and worn it gave way to the twilight and knew it had met its time. We locked up for the night, and knew that hour long showers would be the least of what we needed to feel clean again. But tomorrow we paint the walls.
Day three of homeownership and we were having a painting party. Slowly all our brave friends showed up to see the nightmare in person. They would help us defeat the somber grey and stench of neglect. Every room was abuzz with spackle and sanding and primer and bleach. We had high hopes for this day. Yet like everything else the party came and went with progress, but so far away from any sense of accomplishment. Pizza and beer and laughter and cigarette smoke mixed with bleach and primer. All the windows were now open and you could breath the air without gaging. By the end of the day we hugged all our helpers and thanked them for believing in us and our home. Some snickered on their way out in disbelief of the tasks still at hand. Everyone was eager to see what we would make of our adventure. For four months we painted and repaired and replaced and carpeted and built and decorated. Our grey house was now alive with color and happiness. We feel safe and protected and know that our house is thankful for the redemption.
In almost three years we've put in a driveway, regraded the land, put up a fence, replaced walls, put in new windows (well mostly), replaced the stove, fridge, washing maching and some air conditioners, and converted to a gas heater and did a lot of rewiring. We were ready to install the kitchen when my husband lost his job and I was 5 months pregnant. All those things that enchanted us, now irritate, and there is no more money to continue with her transformation. I sit here wondering if we will have to give up this house that I love to hate. I wonder if she was not calling us to rebuild her, but a life sucking curse to all those that live within her frame. I look around at the vibrant walls I decorated and think maybe they are too bright and we should go neutral. I wonder...and I cry.
Now really. Is this necessary?! How much can one person take? I'm sick and tired and hateful. I can't listen to anymore do-gooder platitudes and niceties along with their pats on the back and false smiles. I'm sick of the bile burning in my throat. I'm tired of my shoulders in my ears and the hammer in my head. I resent the liars, cheats, destroyers of life. I'm numb from constant combustion. I sink into the scortched frozen lands far from Elysium. A zombie. Sterile and pointless.
Faith? Hope? Justice? All dead. See their beautiful landmarks in the endless green? Ahhhh...Here lies Faith, reads the angel Gabriel perched high in concrete splendor, the mother of love and promises of protection. May she rest in peace. Over there the marble room houses her daughter Hope. Hope was larger than life, and life destroyed her in jealousy. What a lovely resting place for such a grand princess. Now Justice...far off in the corner, simple...ignored. Her stone reads...Justice was slayed by the human race, flawed and ugly with their greed and lies.
Don't worry, this too shall pass. You are only given what you are strong enough to face. You will get through this. There are people in far worse situations. Be grateful for what you have. What doesn't kill you will make you stronger. You have to think only of your daughter and family. Stop panicking. You will be ok. It will all work out in the end. Don't question what is.
The justice system failed since he with the most money wins...and let me take what you don't have and your ends won't meet. All because of a part time job that he never would have taken if any of that were true.
My head is exploding and my eyes bulging and under my fingernails bleed. My body keeps twitching and my mouth is dry. My teeth hurt and I taste iron in my throat. My lungs are flaming with each breath. I'm thirsty. I'm thirsty. I'm thirsty.
I give up. I really do. Every time I feel like I've gotten a grip and I can move along something new comes at me and now I'm buried. I'm walking the fields looking for my lost beliefs. They are all here. Eating worms. I don't have the strenght to dig them up. Maybe I'll just sit here under this tree. I worked too hard to watch my life crumble like the mortar in my basement.
My basement. It's a scary place - all stone and crumbling mortar - spiders and creepy crawlies are freeloading residents. The inspector said it was in great condition...the foundation is solid. The house I live in was built in 1880. The day we saw our house we knew it was ours. It felt like ours. We felt it call to us to bring life back to its halls. We had looked at so many houses already with dismay, and this house we had crossed off our list, but we needed to kill time. And this house...this was the one. The man and his wife before us lived amoungst the things of several generations and the filth of 7 years that they couldn't let go. Our realtor held a tissue to her nose as we walked through the devastation of the zombie life. The husband was physically, and from our perception emotionally, broken. He walked room to room with us pointing out the love that he wanted to give the house, but couldn't. We walked along enchanted by the house itself: the transom windows, porcelain knobs, original mouldings, plaster walls, original light fixtures, wavy glass windows, three stories of advnture. The man and his wife were losing this house, this home, to the bank. But we were going to save it we promised.
Our offer went in and the games began. O another offer has come in...same specs...what's your second offer...we have to move settlement date...he did get the grass cut...we need to make it later. Two months of nail biting and determination and settlement day arrived. We arrived at the house excited as first time homeowners to do the walk thru...ahhh we would get to see the house empty. The day had other plans...the man and his wife who had moved into a new home two weeks before had not vacated the property and in no way was it broom swept - our relator wouldn't even let us in the house. The flurry of a devils doing unraveled.
Our relator feverishly got on the phone with others from her office and the man and wife's realtor. What to do now? How can this go through? What...it went into foreclosure today? He's swinging an axe in the yard yelling at the hauler you sent. Do they still want to go through with it? I sat on the curb and cried. Yes, we wanted this house. But. 3 hours after our scheduled settlement on the Friday of Memorial Day weekend we were wisked to the realtor office and told that we would do this in separate rooms and we wouldn't have to see the man and his wife. We will build in left over monies from settlement to pay for a hauling company to come back tomorrow, the man is not right in the head, the wife's son needs this house sold, we will add a clause that forbids him from returning to the property...you could call the police if he does. If we really want this we can do this. They aren't making anything on the house...they owe too much. Let me know what you want to do. Papers signed, we were handed the keys, and we had to wait until tomorrow to go back to the property that we technically owned today.
Our relator is one of my best friends. We were her first, and last client. She gave me a hug, handed me a card and bottle of champagne and said she was sorry for our experience. But we were happy, we loved our new house. We were happy it was finally ours. We would build our first home together here...our wedding was four months away. Plenty of time to bring this house to life once more.
The next day I arrived at the new house alone. The haulers that were ordered would arrive by 9am. I had an hour to walk through alone for the first time since we decided we wanted to buy this house. I unlocked the door, whose lock would be changed in a few hours, and walked inside. I knew Nance said it was bad. And I expected bad, but this was living hell. The stench was suffocating and I couldn't open the windows. I held my Teeshirt to my nose and did my own walk through.
The tears...they started...and I couldn't stop them. The kitchen brought on dry heaves. The sink was full of dishes and cat food and unidentifyable morsels. The refridgerator was filled to bursting with spoiled food years expired, and jars, and cans, and boxes of leftovers...how could they live like this. The bathroom tub was filled with mud and more dishes and mud and junk. The floors were covered with animal urine and feces and trash and more trash. The dining room hosted floor to celing phone books from years gone by from locations near and far and wires and cables and newspapers and debris. The living room no longer even had a path. I was afraid to go upstairs. I walked into the first room and saw it just as I had on our first seeing. The fly paper still hung from the ceiling next to the dead mother's bed. I gaged. The master bedroom was devoid of furniture but unwalkable with debris: pictures, clothing, dishes, chachkis, junk. I didn't even walk up to the third floor. I ran down the stairs and out the door and burst into sobs. What had we done. Hyperventilating I called Rich to tell him it was worse than we thought and I don't know what to do. He reminded me that the haulers would be here soon and he'll be over as soon as he was done work, and so would my sisters with some bleach and rags.
The haulers arrived in parade fashion with their dump truck and pick ups and dungareed treasure seekers. They saw me slumped and bleary eyed on the porch stairs, introduced themselves, and said that when they were done I will be able to call it my own. I warned them that it was ugly, and they replied, "we've seen everything, don't worry." I mostly stayed out of their way and watched in amazement how they systematically went room by room, they decided to call in more recruits and work separately. They pryed off the storms from some of the windows and let the air in. They stripped the caulk from the balcony door and swung it wide. They pulled the dump truck on the lawn and just tossed from second and thrid story...look out below. Every once in a while I would hear one of them call out...look what I found...and every once in a while they would ask if I wanted to keep something. Then at some point I saw it pull up...the blue PT cruiser and the man and his wife dove into the dumpster after their things.
The haulers told me to stay in the house and they would take care of everything, and if need be they would call the police. They will take care of this too. I was paralysed. I began to feel dirt like never before. I knew I smelled like the house. Now that stacks and piles were disappearing I realized that the entire house, floor to ceiling was grey. Everything everywhere grey. I felt grey. I couldn't eat or drink. I had no one left to call. I waited and watched and held doors and bought hoagies from the deli across the street for my miracle workers. At times I felt a pang for the man and his wife. How did they get so desparate? What happened to their lives? Were they always like this? How sad to watch your family history tossed with giggles into a dumpster. Then I looked around and my pang turned to anger. How could they let this happen?
8 hours, 4 dump trucks, 9 haulers, a hundred rubber gloves, 5 brooms, thousands of trash bags...and they were gone.
My sister came with 4 gallons of bleach and more rubber gloves and buckets and brooms. We filled the buckets and started in the kitchen and bathroom. We bleached the fixtures, the floors, the walls, the moulding, the doors, the sinks, the closets, and the shelves. Then we worked our way into the main house and tried to get some grime from the windows and woodwork before we collapsed. When she felt as grey as I, she stood up and said I'm sorry. I thanked her, and she left for a shower or sandblaster to clean up. By the time my husband came the house was empty and smelled of bleach and urine. He entered and instantly turned grey. But he hadn't seen what I had. And never would know what it felt like when the house took its first breath after 7 years. I felt the shutter and the heard the creeking and I wiped my forehead and said tomorrow we pull up the rugs.
That next day Erica came. We donned masks and rubber gloves and clothes we'd be willing to throw away and cut and tore and shredded the carpets. Floor by floor room by room we lifted one layer of grey out of the house. The stench was corrosive, and the sticky ickiness left our stomachs upside down. We worked for hours until the daylight started to sag. Once we lifted the carpets we found rug sized linoleum: we lifted the linoleum to find newspaper from 1943. We read headlines of WWII and the comics eerily maintained their brilliant color. We saw advertisements and sale fliers from $.10 bread and and $2.00 dresses. We hollared from one room to the next about the secret news under the floors. For scattered moments the house told us her stories.
We surveyed the house now bare of all carpet and bleach now penetrating the urine burn, and felt that she was thanking us. One last item before we said good night...the stove...the avacado green stove with broken glass and food particles in its belly...needed to go to the curb. We all heaved and hauled it outside amidst the piles of rolled grey bound in duck tape. The green was so faded and worn it gave way to the twilight and knew it had met its time. We locked up for the night, and knew that hour long showers would be the least of what we needed to feel clean again. But tomorrow we paint the walls.
Day three of homeownership and we were having a painting party. Slowly all our brave friends showed up to see the nightmare in person. They would help us defeat the somber grey and stench of neglect. Every room was abuzz with spackle and sanding and primer and bleach. We had high hopes for this day. Yet like everything else the party came and went with progress, but so far away from any sense of accomplishment. Pizza and beer and laughter and cigarette smoke mixed with bleach and primer. All the windows were now open and you could breath the air without gaging. By the end of the day we hugged all our helpers and thanked them for believing in us and our home. Some snickered on their way out in disbelief of the tasks still at hand. Everyone was eager to see what we would make of our adventure. For four months we painted and repaired and replaced and carpeted and built and decorated. Our grey house was now alive with color and happiness. We feel safe and protected and know that our house is thankful for the redemption.
In almost three years we've put in a driveway, regraded the land, put up a fence, replaced walls, put in new windows (well mostly), replaced the stove, fridge, washing maching and some air conditioners, and converted to a gas heater and did a lot of rewiring. We were ready to install the kitchen when my husband lost his job and I was 5 months pregnant. All those things that enchanted us, now irritate, and there is no more money to continue with her transformation. I sit here wondering if we will have to give up this house that I love to hate. I wonder if she was not calling us to rebuild her, but a life sucking curse to all those that live within her frame. I look around at the vibrant walls I decorated and think maybe they are too bright and we should go neutral. I wonder...and I cry.
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