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.
08 December 2010
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.
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