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Archive for May, 2003

|| May 13, 2003 || 10:37 pm || Comments (1) ||

Setup: How are Michael Jackson and a plastic bag alike?
Punchline: One is white and dangerous to kids. The other is a plastic bag.

Maxim’s new Playboy subscription was worth every penny of the twelve dollars spent on it because of that joke. I nearly asphyxiated from laughing so hard.

|| May 12, 2003 || 4:43 pm || Comments (12) ||

Today, while trying on swimsuits, I was mortified when four-year-old Mathias (who was previously playing, deceptively quiet, in one corner of the fitting room) exclaimed loudly and amusedly,

“Ha-ha-HA, mommy, you’re NAKED! I see your breasts! I see your pee-pwlthb…”

I gagged him with a lovely keyhole-back tankini. If it ever happens again I’m gonna yell, “Whose kid is this? Sweet mother of Pete, doesn’t anyone watch their kid anymore? Get him outta here!”

I swear to God I am.

|| May 10, 2003 || 11:34 pm || Comments (8) ||

“Momma,” Scout says to me yesterday around noon, “Could you dress like a mommy for my party tonight?”

Yes, brothers and sisters, ‘mommy’ is a costume we put on. Kiss the chef; bring on the beer and sausages. There’s a birthday party a-brewin’ and I have not one pair of Keds to my name.

Bemused, and although I was wearing sunglasses at the time and couldn’t verify in the rear-view mirror, I’m sure my eyes were twinkling.

Outside of work regalia, my personal style swings from laid-back rebellious to (eep) Sporty Spice and sometimes shakes hands with both. I can dress up and enjoy it…I have mad skills in the ‘taste’ and ‘refinement’ areas; I just don’t have much call or opportunity to exercise them.

“Wellll,” I told her, “I think that will require a quick shopping trip.”

Never one to shy away from the sound that the plastic facilitator of pay-you-back-later-I-promise fundage makes when being whipped from the comfort of my wallet, Scout suggested that we go to the NamelessLittleBoutique that she and I enjoy. I made all the requisite turns to get us there.

Diving into the racks, showing various pieces to one another, is fun. She is at the age where I can trust her judgement as the junior fashionista. She crossed that threshold when, last year as we were cleaning out her old junk to make way for newer junk, she pulled out the plastic two-inch Barney dangling from a rainbow-colored cord and said, “I can’t believe I ever wore this thing. It’s so uuuugly.” It rekindled the hope in me, brothers and sisters, that I would not have to dress her until she was forty-eight.

I’m loaded for bear, an armload of things causing a cramp in my bicep, when she coos, “Ooooh, momma, I like this….” I see that she is fondling a terry-cloth getup, two pieces consisting of a hooded top with cap sleeves and (Gawdheppme) capri pants. It is pink, trimmed in black.


Yes. Pink.

“Scout,” I say somberly, “That thing is pink.”

“I know, momma.” Those big blue eyes. Earnest. Wicked.

Maybe she dint hear me. “Pink, Scouty. It’s pink.”

“I know. I liiiiike it.”

“Scout, do you realize it’s pink?” (she nods) “Do you realize I’m your mother?” (she smiles and nods) “Do you realize I don’t wear pink? Ever?”

“Well, here’s what,” she says with Extreme Logic, which is one of the sports she is best at, “I like it. You could pretend it’s orange.”

Well yes I could. I couldn’t argue with that sort of bullet-proof thinking. I could pretend it was orange. There was nothing blocking the ole pretender today. I looked away, pained, and shot my hand out toward her in a ‘gimme’ gesture. It joined the pile of clothes across my forearm, which the salesgirl magically removed to a fitting room shortly thereafter. Scout grinned wide and wonderful.

Some forty-five minutes later found us in the car once again, bag of purchases stowed safely in the trunk, headed for the party store and such. There was a creamy lemon chiffon-hued pantsuit and mint-peach-ivory plaid capris with linen top and a black squeezy dress-thing to nestle in my closet. It was then that something occurred to me.

“Hey Scout….does it bother you when your teachers and friends mistake me for your big sister?”


“I guess what I’m asking is, does it make you uncomfortable? Would you rather people think I was your mommy and never your sister or would you rather people think I was your sister and never your mommy?”

“It doesn’t matter to me, momma. I never even thought twice about it, to tell you the truth.” Whew, relief. I was afraid we were about to become one of those ‘I-wish-my-mom-were-my-mom’ Ricki Lake episodes.

She pushed her sunglasses off her eyes and to the top of her head, framing her blowing hair, and squinted at me.

“I just thought you might like to have something new; you never buy anything for yourself, really. Everyone needs new things sometimes.”

That sly little girlchile. She goosed me (in a good way) and I responded in kind.

I wore the pantsuit with strappy shoes and my hair trailing down my back. “You look pretty, mom,” was what Sam said when I emerged, freshly-pressed and smelling nice, from my bedroom this afternoon. This from the kid who still thinks Girls Have Cooties. Happy Mothers’ Day to me.

|| May 9, 2003 || 7:23 pm || Comments (3) ||

Have you ever been a regular viewer of a television series and for some reason – maybe you got busy or the plots started to get repetitive, whatever – drifted away and stopped following it?

Then, one day, you’re clicking thru the channels and come across that old show, a show that you used to know fairly well, but now you have no idea what’s going on and/or who these new people are and where did that one character go?


|| May 8, 2003 || 11:28 pm || Comments (7) ||

Sometimes, where this *waves arms impotently* thing is concerned, I feel so inherently dishonest that it cripples my ability to tappity-tap out even the most innocuous of drivel. I feel like I withold far too much, and then I wonder why I am so insane as to think that I have to give myself away in such a fashion. Or that anyone would even give two yippity-fucks if I did.

I think, sometimes, that my virtual transparency rings out as shallow because it has a tendency to be so pat and direct. The title ‘Mouthy Jagoff’ could certainly describe me, but there are so many others that I believe people are fundamentally unaware of and this is my own damned fault.

I made the comment to Maxim tonight that I felt like I was being pulled along behind everyone else in my world rather than doing the very sacrosanct thing that supposedly defines me as a person, no matter the hat I’m wearing: Retaining a sense of self and a sense of purpose. Keeping a part of myself for me rather than giving it all away and feeling like it’s never quite enough, like there are always more and more demands being made on my time and my emotions and just me in general. I’m eroding, being vacuumed up bit by bit into everyone along the way. In moments of clarity, like now, like the past several weeks, this phenomenon is alarming to me. I’m not self-renewing? Holy Mother of GAAAAHD.

I am not who I set out to be, or even who I could be by even one-tenth. It is, quite frankly, breaking my heart.

Maxim was all agog at this revelation, all “My God, you’re shitting me, right? Right?” It was his assertion that I am the center of so many things and people, so how could I feel this way? I believe the exact words used were, “Everything revolves around you…” He didn’t mean that as a slight, but still I felt it necessary to realign his views on that remark. There is a difference between things revolving around you and being the lynchpin that keeps everything cyclical and humming as it should. A body that is revolved around has gravity in its corner and everything it does is basically effortless and according to the laws of nature. There is no true dynamic involved. The lynchpin holds things together at the center through a matter of force –mostly opposing– and was not hung there indiscriminately, but placed there. Unlike the body gifted with gravitational force, the lynchpin will eventually strain and wear out, needing to be replaced. Repair is generally not an option without new parts to work with.

Things have got to change, and I spent a long while tonight laying this bare to my spouse, my best friend, someone whom I like beyond the grasp of gushy words and mere sentimentality, someone I’d never hurt for the world but still may have to. This is a discussion we’ve had before, though not in such a thorough manner, and in the end it came out word for word like he summed it up:

“See, we do this every time; you tell me what you think and how you feel, we discuss it and then I sit here with you looking at me in expectation of some formal declaration from me, some sort of profound response and I’ve got nothing.”

To which, I answered:


without a hint of sarcasm. Only hurt. Hurt that, despite the width and breadth and depth of it, I’ve not settled between us as a barrier.

And he:

“It’s like I’ve said before, one day you are going to get sick of feeling that way and you’re going to take the steps you feel necessary to change it.”

leaving the words “by leaving me.” unspoken but heavily emphasized. I fully expect to go to him one day, saying, “It’s time now,” and for him to say, “Okay. I knew, I just didn’t have a bead on the exact date.”

While the subletities of it all are too great and varied for me to go into here, I can say that neither one of us has truly done anything wrong; two wrongs don’t make a right but two lacks of wrong don’t especially make a right, either. I feel as if I were sold a bill of goods and it’s not entirely anyone else’s fault, because I helped sell that bill by my willingness to take something said at face value: To trust. Again. To take someone at their word because they are good and earnest and think they a) mean it and b) are sure of what they are getting themselves into.
I am beyond the point of being embarrassed that I’ve now been married three times and am probably creeping up on ending marriage number three. Is that sad? Funny? Desperate? Or is it reasonable and sane?

I have grown, and am continuing to grow. Maybe you are growing, too, but it seems that we are evolving at different rates of speed, in different directions. Nobody plans that shit, and you can’t in all honesty plan for it; it just is, man.

I just don’t want it to end badly. Before Maxim, I could never understand the theory of retaining your ex as a friend. My thoughts on the matter were absolute: If you don’t want to be married to someone, then why the fuck would you want to be their friend? Once again, one of my platitudes rears up to bite me in the ass. I am forced to learn things far too many times because of my unfortunate practice of speaking judgementally and inconcretia. God bless, there is a lot of gray fucking up the black and white, you know?

Where the great scope of things is concerned, I don’t know a whole lot. I’m woman enough to admit that. I know what I know because I’ve walked each little tightrope necessary for information gathering. Some of those tightropes were strung up as part of the grand scheme of things, part of them I foolishly or haphazardly or daringly (depends on who you’d ask, I would imagine) put in place for myself.

But I byGod know passion, having stewed and simmered in it most of my born days. Blessing, curse, double-edged sword: Call it what you will, but it has a home in me, ticking away like a shadow behind my heart, beneath my innards, swirling in the very marrow. When the ticking becomes so muted and so loses its rhythm that I have to strain to hear it or try and force it to make time, then I become wildly alarmed. It feels like being the walking dead, and if that is the case, then what the fuck is the point? I can’t live my life devoid of passion, no matter how inane and schoolgirl that may sound, any more than I can live it without water and air.

That little cry that Joey Lauren Adams lets out in ‘Chasing Amy‘…you know that scene, the one in the rain after Alyssa (Adams) has stormed off into the weather and Holden (The Affleck) stands there, flabbergasted, looking after her all ‘whatthefuckdidIdoooo?’; then she comes flying back, surging into him, crying out right before their mouths meet? That sound; that’s passion.

Me biting my bottom lip in concentration, excitement, expectation. That’s passion.

The song ‘Mississippi’ by Paula Cole. That’s passion.

I know it, damnit all to fuck, and I’m not willing to let it slip away into mundanity. For Chrissakes, I’m not talking about climbing Everest or boxing a kangaroo or cradling millions or anything far-flung or -fetched here, I’m talking about living with meaning, with purposeful intent, with zest and a sense of hopeful (pragmatic or not) adventure. With kicking ass and taking names, even if that just means remembering to get every item at the grocery store that I was supposed to pick up, list or no. Plodding along in the day to day holds no magic. Plodding along in the day to day with zeal does.

So, I’m sitting here, watching the demise of a marriage to one of my most favorite (if not the most favorite) people, praying to all that is holy that it doesn’t turn into a trainwreck, mangled appendages flung everywhere. It’s a big request, I know, but fairly simple, considering there are things like war and pestilence and General Gross Ugliness blanketing this here planet:

“Dear God,
“Please don’t let me fuck this up too very badly. I love this person and wish him no harm. Send in the fat lady. I’m ready to listen respectfully.
“Humbly yours,

Sometimes it’s just about grace. In spite of it all, in the face of it all, whatever.

And sometimes it’s just about grace. Period.

::: :: ::: :: :::

i know i’m big and proud all over / not just on the stage / my secret self has many sides / that laugh and crush and sting / i’m red and thick like fire / i like it from behind / round to back / red to white / i’m pure inside and silent

i’m alive / gotta piece of my heart / on the sole of your shoe / i’ve got a little bit of thunder / trapped inside of a cloud

the dog in you / spit me out into the mississippi / i know who can love my many selves / the wife the bitch the rapunzel / the one who cries / and calls for you / the one who is always alone

oh mississippi / come and wash my pain away / oh mississippi / come and take my pain away / i feel i’m drowning / i feel i’m drowning / i feel i’m / i feel i’m / dying

// Paula Cole, ‘Mississippi’

|| May 8, 2003 || 12:51 am || Comments (11) ||

Well, I’ve gone and done it. These four walls and five people just weren’t enough. In my lusty quest for dominion, I’ve gone and started my own country. All hail the fine Rogue Nation of Superiornia. Don’t fuck around.

I should make waistdog Prime Minister of something. And the two Tees should head up the Ministry of the Not Entirely All There But Not Entirely Devoid of Sanity, Either.

The nudists are already giving me shit. Fuckin’ nekkid folks…always the first to bitch.

Link found via quixotical.

|| May 7, 2003 || 10:13 am || Comments (0) ||

I just saw this ugly, flashy banner ad that screamed,

“Get your own blog!”

For reasons I cannot explain (mayhap it’s some leftover wooze), this made me a titch sick. Felt like the trumpet heralding the death of a medium, or something.

The ‘bee+log’ thing was a bit over the top, I think.