Hello, internets.
This is going to be a quick one because now both, not one, of my kids are sick and I am back at work. Spring Break is over. And I strongly suspect, from the roiling in my own gut, that I might be getting whatever the kids have, which begs the question of whether I should go to class on Wednesday and possibly vomit on some poor kid's backpack.
However, I am aware that, especially for this nascent blog, it's been too long. Some things I need to address are:
1)How was the ex-in-laws' visit to me?
2)How was the return of The Boyfriend?
3)Why did I buy approximately $150 worth of night cream for said return?
4)How was the experience of having the ex threaten legal action when I wouldn't change plans at last minute on Sunday and THEN decide to show up four hours late anyway?
5)Am I making my son gay by letting him have a maribou-trimmed Easter basket (a present from the neighbors)?
6)Am I kidding myself that Easter eggs and the like are not as Christian as Christmas trees and the like (I know, I know. But we're not Christian and check out the origins of the word "Easter." It's pretty explicitly secular and spring-focused, much more directly so that Baby Jesus day)?
7)What, in fact, did happen at the Harper Valley PTA meeting last Thursday?
All in good time, my friends. All in good time.
In the meanwhile, let me leave you with this tableau:
It's midnight on Saturday. The Boyfriend and I have been talking for three hours or so about some pretty heavy topics: his discomfort with my maintaining a friendship with L. of Like a Virgin fame, possible future plans, etc. My daughter V. has just thrown up twice, in her bed, and I have given her to The Boyfriend to hold, at her request, while I clean up. Then we've put her to bed and I've gone and dumped the dirty sheets in the wash. While down there, I've noticed that my shirt has barf on it, so I return to the kitchen in a bra and jeans.
The Boyfriend is doing my dishes. When I enter the room he tells me he's worried about V. Then, still scrubbing, he gets that slackjawed ogling look that tells me the Titty Center of his brain has just activated and proceeds to leer at me, charmingly, when he scrubs.
I was unfair in my previous rant, is what I'm saying. Because a dude who's doing your dishes, comforting your sick daughter, and glazed with lust all in the space of ten minutes is a dude worth knowing.
Also, he still has a magical penis. Just sayin'.
Showing posts with label kids. Show all posts
Showing posts with label kids. Show all posts
Monday, April 5, 2010
Thursday, April 1, 2010
I Always Wanted to be a Female Weird Al
I did, too. I spend most of middle school scribbling alternate lyrics to pop songs in my notebooks. I even had a name -- Strange Liz Yankatooth. I don't know why I thought that was funny, but I totally did. Actually, I do know why I thought that was funny: BECAUSE I WAS TWELVE. Now that I am no longer twelve, I find it faintly embarrassing, but in the interest of bloggerly honesty, I'm giving it to you straight.
Anyway, I was inspired by the delightful Sybil Vane of Bitch Ph.D to reprise those days this morning. Professor Vane had the fabulous good taste to put up Philip Larkin's poem "This Be The Verse" today, and I normally never comment, but since a)hey, my blog is totally anonymous and I therefore started with no readers and, you know, maybe my navel-gazing will amuse some of those folks and b)I knew exactly how she felt with the parenting frustration because I feel like that approximately every two minutes, plus c)I really love that poem, which my college boyfriend used to recite to me and which I once wrote out in calligraphy for my best friend, who put it in a place of honor on his bedroom wall in Fort Greene, I put up the Strange Liz version, which I thought I should throw up here for posterity, in case I want to let my kids read this blog when they're older, or hell freezes over. Whichever:
There you have it. I could do shit like that all day. I just realized, though, that I forgot to give it a title. What should I call it? "Bring Me The Hearse"? "Fisting Ain't Worse"? (Okay, maybe not on that last one. I think I used up all my assonance dendrites today, though.)
That's all for now. Maybe I'll dig up the alternate lyrics to Radiohead's "Fake Plastic Trees" that I wrote when my son was a few months old. They're called "Fake Plastic Diaps." I still have to get it together to send them to Thom Yorke.
Anyway, I was inspired by the delightful Sybil Vane of Bitch Ph.D to reprise those days this morning. Professor Vane had the fabulous good taste to put up Philip Larkin's poem "This Be The Verse" today, and I normally never comment, but since a)hey, my blog is totally anonymous and I therefore started with no readers and, you know, maybe my navel-gazing will amuse some of those folks and b)I knew exactly how she felt with the parenting frustration because I feel like that approximately every two minutes, plus c)I really love that poem, which my college boyfriend used to recite to me and which I once wrote out in calligraphy for my best friend, who put it in a place of honor on his bedroom wall in Fort Greene, I put up the Strange Liz version, which I thought I should throw up here for posterity, in case I want to let my kids read this blog when they're older, or hell freezes over. Whichever:
They fuck you up, your progeny
They do not mean to, but they do.
Their egos swell quite monstrously
Until there is no room for you.
They bring to mind your childhood tears,
And all the things you'd like them spared,
And send you screaming to your beer
Whilst growing faults you haven't shared.
They suck away your very life
Until you're passed out on the floor,
They bring cacophony and strife,
And then they waltz right out the door.
There you have it. I could do shit like that all day. I just realized, though, that I forgot to give it a title. What should I call it? "Bring Me The Hearse"? "Fisting Ain't Worse"? (Okay, maybe not on that last one. I think I used up all my assonance dendrites today, though.)
That's all for now. Maybe I'll dig up the alternate lyrics to Radiohead's "Fake Plastic Trees" that I wrote when my son was a few months old. They're called "Fake Plastic Diaps." I still have to get it together to send them to Thom Yorke.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Word Gets Around
A funny thing happened at my local independent bookstore today.
I had stopped by with V., who's still home sick from school, to pick up an order that had come in. I knew the cashier by sight but not name, so chit-chat was at a minimum, but then Dave walked by.
Dave is one of the book buyers. He's also dreamy. Curly dark hair, blue eyes, handsome, sweet, charming, my age, and -- get this -- raised two children on his own after he and his wife split when they were little and she didn't want them. They're now in their mid-teens, which means he must've been barely out of his when he got hitched the first time.
Amazingly, he almost always seems to be in a good mood. He's one of those people whom everyone loves because he's so nice. His hotness is significant, but even that is overpowered by the sheer force of his goodness. And with a bio like that, he's a single mom's wet dream.
Regrettably for all the voracious single moms like me would've snapped Dave up like coyotes would steak, he's also remarried and the proud papa of a five-month-old boy. Which is great for him, really, and I'm not even shedding tears over it since I (unfortunately) don't tend to go for the nice type. I like them a little mean. Just a little. And I'm not necessarily proud of that fact (more on this later). I'm just hard-wired that way. Guys like Dave I hang out with and love as friends. Guys that make me want to drop trou tend to be a little rougher around the edges.
Anyway, lest you think I'm a crazy, lovelorn bookstore employee stalker (a breed not unknown in this town), let me explain that I know many of the employees of this particular store pretty well because a)I used to work at another branch of same in MY teens and some of my coworkers transferred there, b)my boyfriend way-back-when worked at this store, and c)the ex's uncle-by-marriage works there currently, and we are on cordial terms. Plus, d)my good friend and also long-ago ex W., who is an independent book dealer, is in there a lot. So I get to shoot the shit with these guys without coming across as a desperate former housewife.
Anyway, Dave's cool and I like him. I had quite a few distressed and TMI-filled conversations with him about being a Divorce Survivor while my divorce was fresh. I wanted to know how his single parenting experience was, etc. But I haven't seen him in a while and it's not like I ever talk to those guys outside their work, so I try not to importune them.
Today, though, he was in a mood to talk. And he was laughing. "W. cracked me up the other day," he said, "he told me something funny that your daughter said and I almost spit out my drink."
"Oh yeah?" I asked. I imagined that it was the anecdote about how my daughter turned to W. when he was over one day and, referring to her brother, remarked, "He's stupid." W. thought that was hilarious and called me the next day to tell me about it.
"Yeah," Dave said. "He said that your daughter saw that picture of the Christian Militia that's been making the rounds, pointed at one, and said the name of your ex's girlfriend."
"Oh, that!" I replied. "Yeah, she saw it on my Facebook page, pointed right at it and was all 'Mar-o-lyn, that's Mar-o-lyn.' I told her it wasn't, but she insisted."
"That's awesome!" Dave laughed. "Out of the mouths of babes."
"Shhhh!" I said, "You know my ex comes in here!"
He smirked, took a swig of his coffee.
"So do you think I should tell him?"
That was when we had to get the paper towels.
But despite the damage to my sweatshirt, I have to say that incident buoyed me up for the rest of the morning. And I belatedly realized why: because it means those guys are pulling for me. They're rooting for me. And it's not that they'd ever be rude or insulting to my ex, but they watched us together and they watched when he left and they see me with the kids and him without and nobody there truly dislikes him, but they're also not overcompensating, the way so many mutual acquaintances do, by pretending that the playing field is equal and there are no bad guys and everybody needs validation and blah blah blah insert more of the kids of things my mother-in-law would say here to explain why she was buying presents for the ex's girlfriend, whom he started dating before he left me, just weeks after my father-in-law and I found, aghast, the sexy text messages he'd sent her while still married. (To her credit, she started wooing the girlfriend after she stopped urging me to win him back and buy some condoms against the diseases he might've picked up.)
These guys -- Dave, another guy, Josh, and the ex's uncle Alex -- are in my corner. It's not even that they're against the ex. It's just that they're behind me. And they're not shy to say so.
It's nice to know.
I had stopped by with V., who's still home sick from school, to pick up an order that had come in. I knew the cashier by sight but not name, so chit-chat was at a minimum, but then Dave walked by.
Dave is one of the book buyers. He's also dreamy. Curly dark hair, blue eyes, handsome, sweet, charming, my age, and -- get this -- raised two children on his own after he and his wife split when they were little and she didn't want them. They're now in their mid-teens, which means he must've been barely out of his when he got hitched the first time.
Amazingly, he almost always seems to be in a good mood. He's one of those people whom everyone loves because he's so nice. His hotness is significant, but even that is overpowered by the sheer force of his goodness. And with a bio like that, he's a single mom's wet dream.
Regrettably for all the voracious single moms like me would've snapped Dave up like coyotes would steak, he's also remarried and the proud papa of a five-month-old boy. Which is great for him, really, and I'm not even shedding tears over it since I (unfortunately) don't tend to go for the nice type. I like them a little mean. Just a little. And I'm not necessarily proud of that fact (more on this later). I'm just hard-wired that way. Guys like Dave I hang out with and love as friends. Guys that make me want to drop trou tend to be a little rougher around the edges.
Anyway, lest you think I'm a crazy, lovelorn bookstore employee stalker (a breed not unknown in this town), let me explain that I know many of the employees of this particular store pretty well because a)I used to work at another branch of same in MY teens and some of my coworkers transferred there, b)my boyfriend way-back-when worked at this store, and c)the ex's uncle-by-marriage works there currently, and we are on cordial terms. Plus, d)my good friend and also long-ago ex W., who is an independent book dealer, is in there a lot. So I get to shoot the shit with these guys without coming across as a desperate former housewife.
Anyway, Dave's cool and I like him. I had quite a few distressed and TMI-filled conversations with him about being a Divorce Survivor while my divorce was fresh. I wanted to know how his single parenting experience was, etc. But I haven't seen him in a while and it's not like I ever talk to those guys outside their work, so I try not to importune them.
Today, though, he was in a mood to talk. And he was laughing. "W. cracked me up the other day," he said, "he told me something funny that your daughter said and I almost spit out my drink."
"Oh yeah?" I asked. I imagined that it was the anecdote about how my daughter turned to W. when he was over one day and, referring to her brother, remarked, "He's stupid." W. thought that was hilarious and called me the next day to tell me about it.
"Yeah," Dave said. "He said that your daughter saw that picture of the Christian Militia that's been making the rounds, pointed at one, and said the name of your ex's girlfriend."
"Oh, that!" I replied. "Yeah, she saw it on my Facebook page, pointed right at it and was all 'Mar-o-lyn, that's Mar-o-lyn.' I told her it wasn't, but she insisted."
"That's awesome!" Dave laughed. "Out of the mouths of babes."
"Shhhh!" I said, "You know my ex comes in here!"
He smirked, took a swig of his coffee.
"So do you think I should tell him?"
That was when we had to get the paper towels.
But despite the damage to my sweatshirt, I have to say that incident buoyed me up for the rest of the morning. And I belatedly realized why: because it means those guys are pulling for me. They're rooting for me. And it's not that they'd ever be rude or insulting to my ex, but they watched us together and they watched when he left and they see me with the kids and him without and nobody there truly dislikes him, but they're also not overcompensating, the way so many mutual acquaintances do, by pretending that the playing field is equal and there are no bad guys and everybody needs validation and blah blah blah insert more of the kids of things my mother-in-law would say here to explain why she was buying presents for the ex's girlfriend, whom he started dating before he left me, just weeks after my father-in-law and I found, aghast, the sexy text messages he'd sent her while still married. (To her credit, she started wooing the girlfriend after she stopped urging me to win him back and buy some condoms against the diseases he might've picked up.)
These guys -- Dave, another guy, Josh, and the ex's uncle Alex -- are in my corner. It's not even that they're against the ex. It's just that they're behind me. And they're not shy to say so.
It's nice to know.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Fickle
I talked to my boyfriend tonight.
Yeah, I have a boyfriend. I guess.
(The expression of dubiousness is not so much because I'm not sure he's my boyfriend as because I'm skeptical of that position and what it means. "Boyfriend." Hmm...lemme see...OH, you mean "guy you're sleeping with but aren't actually committed enough to to take any risks with?" OK then! Yes, I'm a cynic. I should curb my judgment. Because really, "boyfriend" is probably a necessary step now that arranged marriages are passé. But it seems so half-assed, and there's nothing I love less than half-assed.)
He's not the guy I lost my post-divorce virginity with. He's the guy who caught sight of me at a coffee shop at the beach, invited me to share his table, and subsequently managed to discover that I was a single parent, get my number, and send me two text messages that day to tell me he hoped we would hang out back in town.
He's the guy who impressed me as someone thoughtful, grown up, and yet unconventional and interesting. The guy who was consistent enough, communicative enough, and present enough to keep sending me those texts (but not so often it got creepy) until I felt like I had to at least go on one date with him.
Six months later, here we are.
I could write a lot of posts about how my boyfriend is funny, is caring, is passionate, thinks about my kids, has good ethics in general, and got me a kickass birthday gift despite the fact that we'd had exactly one date by my birthday. Not to mention the fact that very frequently, sex with him makes me want to swoon, then die, then sell my soul to Satan. If you know what I mean. I recently used the phrase "magical penis" to my old friend E. And I MEANT IT.
This, however, is not that post.
This is the post I'm writing in which I acknowledge that the man I'm dating, and men in general -- yes, pretty much all of them -- frequently impresses me not with his finer qualities, but with his ability to think only about himself.
Yup. Because I'm a Man and I'm Looking Out For Number One and Since I Have No Significant Responsibilities or Commitments, that means How Can Number One Have the Most Fun?
Seriously.
Seriously, I know we live in a culture of gratification, a culture where "fun" is supposed to be the apex of happiness, a culture where amusing oneself gustatorily, sexually, or otherwise equals identity and maybe even happiness, but come ON.
One of my favorite books series when I was a child, The Dark Is Rising by Susan Cooper (which I highly recommend you read if you enjoy literate, interesting fantasy, and which I demand you buy for any child you care about between the ages of eight and twelve, depending), posits, at some point, that "loving bonds" are the most important thing in this world and that they, in fact, define identity and belonging as much as genes and chronology do. And I guess in some way that resonates with me. Because I am of a family that very much defines me (despite our dysfunctions and silent treatments) and because I head a family that very much requires me to rise to the occasion. And because, perhaps, it's my nature to think that the relationships we form in this world are more powerful and more important than anything else we form here.
So you can understand my dismay when, in the third and last week of his trip to Asia, my boyfriend phones me from Shanghai, and it's an hour after he said he would and I am worried because my two-year-old has been throwing up and is getting dehydrated and the first thing he does is launch into a description of what's happening with him, the fact that he's postponing the day trip to Suzhou until tomorrow, the coffee he's going to drink after we get off the phone, and blah blah blah.
And I'm sitting there listening to him thinking, wow. I emailed you to say I was worried about my daughter, you replied that you'd call me and were concerned as well, and now you're talking about coffee and trains?
It got worse, of course. His next few moments of conversation consisted of detailing why he likes Hong Kong better than Shanghai, including the remarks that the women are "stunningly beautiful" in HK and not so much in Shanghai (which is, for the sake of full disclosure, the city my father is from, and my grandma was plenty hot, thank you very much. Not to mention What The Fuck Are You Doing Checking Out Chicks Anyway? And If You Are, Why Do You Lack the Class Just to Not Tell Me About It? Not to mention that I'm worried my kid is going to die from this strange vomiting thing that the doctors could not explain and could you therefore SHUT UP already about the relative hotness of chicks who aren't me? Okay thanks. Great. Awesome).
Meanwhile every other word is cut off and there's a lag that means we keep interrupting each other and I'm worried my daughter is gonna keep vomiting water every time I feed her a measly teaspoonful. Which I've been doing. Through a syringe. Every twenty minutes.
I don't rant. I am civil. I acknowledge that people have other perspectives. I know that my family is not the center of the world.
But when he says that he might go surfing this Sunday -- Sunday afternoon is my one kid-free day and he gets back, after three weeks away, Friday night -- I blanch. I think, are you seriously not going to stay in town and hang out with me and the kids you claim you love? I think, is it seriously more important to you to surf than it is to see the person you claim you love and are "deeply committed" to?
He doesn't hear these thoughts, of course. Because it's not worth my fighting the static and lag to communicate them. Because I know that he's not actually trying to illustrate that he's not going to make me a priority.
"Gotta get in the water," he says. "Gotta do it."
Oh yeah? I think. And what else do you have to get into? Because it might not stick around waiting while you hare off to wherever it is to amuse yourself with outdoor activities.
I know, I know. I can be a real bitch sometimes. And my expectations are too high. And I should live and let live. And mostly, I do.
But sometimes the total and complete selfishness, self-centeredness, of men in general and the ones in my life in particular, gets to me. Sometimes I catch myself thinking, "maybe I won't be here to welcome you back."
It's not that I hate men. I love them. It's just that it amazes me how much they're allowed to get away with thinking only of themselves -- and how long it takes to teach them to do otherwise. And then it amazes me that I put up with all that noise.
Even, it must be said, with the magical penis.
Yeah, I have a boyfriend. I guess.
(The expression of dubiousness is not so much because I'm not sure he's my boyfriend as because I'm skeptical of that position and what it means. "Boyfriend." Hmm...lemme see...OH, you mean "guy you're sleeping with but aren't actually committed enough to to take any risks with?" OK then! Yes, I'm a cynic. I should curb my judgment. Because really, "boyfriend" is probably a necessary step now that arranged marriages are passé. But it seems so half-assed, and there's nothing I love less than half-assed.)
He's not the guy I lost my post-divorce virginity with. He's the guy who caught sight of me at a coffee shop at the beach, invited me to share his table, and subsequently managed to discover that I was a single parent, get my number, and send me two text messages that day to tell me he hoped we would hang out back in town.
He's the guy who impressed me as someone thoughtful, grown up, and yet unconventional and interesting. The guy who was consistent enough, communicative enough, and present enough to keep sending me those texts (but not so often it got creepy) until I felt like I had to at least go on one date with him.
Six months later, here we are.
I could write a lot of posts about how my boyfriend is funny, is caring, is passionate, thinks about my kids, has good ethics in general, and got me a kickass birthday gift despite the fact that we'd had exactly one date by my birthday. Not to mention the fact that very frequently, sex with him makes me want to swoon, then die, then sell my soul to Satan. If you know what I mean. I recently used the phrase "magical penis" to my old friend E. And I MEANT IT.
This, however, is not that post.
This is the post I'm writing in which I acknowledge that the man I'm dating, and men in general -- yes, pretty much all of them -- frequently impresses me not with his finer qualities, but with his ability to think only about himself.
Yup. Because I'm a Man and I'm Looking Out For Number One and Since I Have No Significant Responsibilities or Commitments, that means How Can Number One Have the Most Fun?
Seriously.
Seriously, I know we live in a culture of gratification, a culture where "fun" is supposed to be the apex of happiness, a culture where amusing oneself gustatorily, sexually, or otherwise equals identity and maybe even happiness, but come ON.
One of my favorite books series when I was a child, The Dark Is Rising by Susan Cooper (which I highly recommend you read if you enjoy literate, interesting fantasy, and which I demand you buy for any child you care about between the ages of eight and twelve, depending), posits, at some point, that "loving bonds" are the most important thing in this world and that they, in fact, define identity and belonging as much as genes and chronology do. And I guess in some way that resonates with me. Because I am of a family that very much defines me (despite our dysfunctions and silent treatments) and because I head a family that very much requires me to rise to the occasion. And because, perhaps, it's my nature to think that the relationships we form in this world are more powerful and more important than anything else we form here.
So you can understand my dismay when, in the third and last week of his trip to Asia, my boyfriend phones me from Shanghai, and it's an hour after he said he would and I am worried because my two-year-old has been throwing up and is getting dehydrated and the first thing he does is launch into a description of what's happening with him, the fact that he's postponing the day trip to Suzhou until tomorrow, the coffee he's going to drink after we get off the phone, and blah blah blah.
And I'm sitting there listening to him thinking, wow. I emailed you to say I was worried about my daughter, you replied that you'd call me and were concerned as well, and now you're talking about coffee and trains?
It got worse, of course. His next few moments of conversation consisted of detailing why he likes Hong Kong better than Shanghai, including the remarks that the women are "stunningly beautiful" in HK and not so much in Shanghai (which is, for the sake of full disclosure, the city my father is from, and my grandma was plenty hot, thank you very much. Not to mention What The Fuck Are You Doing Checking Out Chicks Anyway? And If You Are, Why Do You Lack the Class Just to Not Tell Me About It? Not to mention that I'm worried my kid is going to die from this strange vomiting thing that the doctors could not explain and could you therefore SHUT UP already about the relative hotness of chicks who aren't me? Okay thanks. Great. Awesome).
Meanwhile every other word is cut off and there's a lag that means we keep interrupting each other and I'm worried my daughter is gonna keep vomiting water every time I feed her a measly teaspoonful. Which I've been doing. Through a syringe. Every twenty minutes.
I don't rant. I am civil. I acknowledge that people have other perspectives. I know that my family is not the center of the world.
But when he says that he might go surfing this Sunday -- Sunday afternoon is my one kid-free day and he gets back, after three weeks away, Friday night -- I blanch. I think, are you seriously not going to stay in town and hang out with me and the kids you claim you love? I think, is it seriously more important to you to surf than it is to see the person you claim you love and are "deeply committed" to?
He doesn't hear these thoughts, of course. Because it's not worth my fighting the static and lag to communicate them. Because I know that he's not actually trying to illustrate that he's not going to make me a priority.
"Gotta get in the water," he says. "Gotta do it."
Oh yeah? I think. And what else do you have to get into? Because it might not stick around waiting while you hare off to wherever it is to amuse yourself with outdoor activities.
I know, I know. I can be a real bitch sometimes. And my expectations are too high. And I should live and let live. And mostly, I do.
But sometimes the total and complete selfishness, self-centeredness, of men in general and the ones in my life in particular, gets to me. Sometimes I catch myself thinking, "maybe I won't be here to welcome you back."
It's not that I hate men. I love them. It's just that it amazes me how much they're allowed to get away with thinking only of themselves -- and how long it takes to teach them to do otherwise. And then it amazes me that I put up with all that noise.
Even, it must be said, with the magical penis.
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