Life is Art

Mother of God.

Just when I think I am being this total cynical bitch and I need to June-Cleaver myself up a bit, I see / hear of / get wind of another Mama firmly entrenched in the "How-did-I-get-to-be-such-a-doormat?" conundrum. Of course, she never asks herself that question in that exact way, because once you admit to yourself the possible current state of doormat-hood (yes, that's a fucken word!) you realize you're the asshole to blame. Not the kids, the in-laws, the relative sleeping on the couch, the husband's long hours at work, the extra weight on your ass. Many women can't bring themselves to admit their personal losses, but instead focus on their husbands': Gee, I feel bad that my husband works all day and then he comes home to a messy house and a cranky wife... blah blah blah. Yes, honey: put yourself last, it's worked so well for you so far. But - I don't mean to put these women down. In truth, the few women I have diagnosed as truly giving themselves (and their marriage!) the short end of the stick are actually a boon to me. It gives me a reason to survive - somehow maintaining the balance of the universe, cracking the whip on my husband's tender, sweet ass, as I stagger from afternoon Toddler TV Time to Bloody Mary playdate.

Am I really that bad? Only my family knows for sure (that's them on the other computer IMing you: "Call the poliiiiice!")

But jesting aside - it's true I won't know for a long time if my family is doing it "right". Hell, I may never know. But I do know that no one should take care of me but myself. Not that no one will: but no one else is responsible. Sure, if someone wants to step in and give me a break or a little pampering (please take me to Pantyland like Sarah got today! Also, oooh! - I want a homecooked dinner every day this week without me having to cook it!). Taking care of myself helps me take care of my family. It's surprisingly productive: life without crippling depression has its perks. My kids are doing well. My husband and I are still a team - a little damaged, a little fat from comfort / holiday eating - but still intact.

And for all you ladies reading thinking, Has all this bitter invective been referring in a roundabout way to me and my family? the answer is YES.

Moving on. I enjoy some mini-fame 'round these parts for my mix tapes (actually CDs) and I just came up with a great theme for the next one (just not sure who would want it). Remember all that "classic rock" we were subjected to growing up back in the day - on 104.7 ("The X!") on the Harbor? - all these b.o. smellin' old buttrock geezers singing about some barely-legal groupie that got them all fired up (this was before Viagra)? May I present: The Groldies ("grody oldies"). Would include "hits" such as AC/DCs "Shook Me All Night Long", Foreigner's "Hot Blooded", Bad Company's "Feel Like Makin' Love" and The Rolling Stone's "Brown Sugar" (don't get me wrong - I have enjoyed dancing to each and every one of these songs at some point in my life). Ya dig it?

Last night we are in our first ever couples counseling session. My husband is speaking. He relates his experiences of the near two years since our son was born: the hurt and distance he felt in those first few months; evenings of hard work at home and sleep-deprived nights; and most painful, a wife who was not available to him. I am listening anew to these hurts in the way you can when there is a compassionate third party witnessing. I am listening, experiencing stillness. He admits he has not forgiven me for this time in our lives.

Silence, briefly. The counselor turns to me and asks if this is the story I hold. What have I been feeling as Ralph spoke? What do I remember now, looking back on this time of my life?

I speak slowly, "Well, I agree with the events as described..." I pause, trying to think back, starting my own story: "I had these two young children..." my voice breaks. I start to cry. In going back I am suddenly in our living room on a summer midday, two crying babies, postpartum shock, overwhelmed. No one there for me. And now, in the room with friends, I try not to let the sadness overcome me. Our counselor says gently, "Don't hold your breath. You have to breathe." - something in all my years of crying no one has told me. And I discover that if I stop holding my breath, my language flows out as weeping. I hide my face in my hands. But the moment is short. In being given permission to breathe, I have permission to break down and then regain calm. I hold a tissue in my hands and begin anew.

When I relive those feelings, it feels like what I've heard of post-traumatic stress. But there was no awful event; there were no horrific cruelties. There were two sweet babies and a blissful, almost frenetic busyness. Exhilaration, love for my children and pride in the beauty of our family. What is the story of the deep sadness that prevailed?

Forty minutes, much reflection, and a take-home assignment later Ralph and I leave. I feel fine. Cautious yet optimistic for our marriage that forms the cornerstone of our little foursome. My husband and I discuss this first experience together. Ralph comments that our counselor said many things like, "And how do you respond to that?" and "Have you taken anything positive away from this?" He jokes, "Gee, she sure needed a lot of positive reinforcement!" with a mock eye-roll. We laugh for a few minutes as we pull up to a restaurant to split a plate of barbecue together. One last hour before we get back to the kids and our home, that still stands as we built it.

Today the phone rang off the hook. A friend looking for a babysitter reference; other friends catching up from the vacation; my mom; the school board ("Where's the money you owe us?"), returns on calls for childcare tonight (our first couples counseling! we're awesome!) etc. But at about 2 PM a girlfriend from high school unexpectedly phoned. When I picked up she sounded like one of my local Mama buddies but I also simultaneously recognized her voice immediately, although I haven't talked to her in five years or so.

I had a little group (I know you're saying "clique" in your mind) of about six of us that got tight in late middle school and stayed that way through high school and a bit beyond. Out of the six, only two of us are currently married with children (this woman and me) - the rest have careers and, presumably, a more exciting nightlife and better clothes. My girlfriend is happy we have something in common. Our kids are close in age; we have the same irreverrant humor about them; we love them so much it's barfy. On young kids and marriage she asks, "Hey, did you just give your husband a high-five and say, 'See you in 25 years?' " I got a good laugh out of that one.

So now I am reunited with a fellow Breeder and email buddy from the East side (of Washington state, that is - Spokane). It's a good thing.

Pictures from this weekend:


My husband helping my brother Billy, who hovers vulture-like in the corner as Ralph once again duct-tapes his Mac together. Buy a new one already, Gollum!


Kitty Porn. Hey - she's a consenting adult!

A good friend and I are on the phone this morning recapping our holidays and the subject drifts from the good times had by all to the slight taint of rot on the underbelly of holidays. Naming it: Older generations, enforcing the patriarchal divide. My friend talks about her parents: a mother who tends to her son-in-law as if he were a prince, a father who just wants to shoot the shit with his daughter's husband while my girlfriend cooks, cleans, changes diapers, and in short does everything she does during the week plus entertains a house full of company. But - this is Babydaddy's vacation. "I mean, why don't they just offer him a dowry for marrying off their daggy daughter?" she snaps.

I'm laughing as she says this, but in a pained way. It happens in my family as well. A couple days ago Ralph asked me if I would change Nels' diaper and I told him I didn't want to. This is often the first phase of a diaper-changing discussion my husband and I have, and usually Ralph ends up with the honor (damn, I wish I had someone to barter with the 9 hours a day during the week!). My mother rushed in and offered to change it. My intution informs me she was thinking Poor Ralph. Yes, God forbid he should change his own son's diaper, get disgusted with the contents, and get it in his head to go find a younger, less demanding woman, leaving his heifer-like wife stranded. I can't remember the last time my mother saved me from a dirty diaper because I shouldn't have to do them in my "time off". And I sure do change more than my husband does.

My father and brother only participate in this to the extent that in no way at all are they proactive about caring for the children. At least my mother knows these little ones are people, too; she is a sweet, understanding Grandma who works hard when my kids are guests in her home, yet defers to my authority as well. A perfect combo. And of course my father and brother are darlings to let us barge in, all four of us drinking a gallon of milk a day and monopolizing their laundry system, and disrupt their lives. But the men in the family are quite content to let the ladies "figure it all out" in terms of meals, childcare, bed and bath time. In fact when I first became a mother my father and brother acted terrified of my child. You'd thought it was a baby alligator I had birthed. I used to have to hold my baby out in midair for five minutes and cajole before they'd hold her. Even now, asking for five minutes or an hour of sit time is met with a grumpy silence and (usually) eventual mumbled acquiesence.

I love my family, and I love that they let us intrude. And I bear no resentment towards my husband over these issues. My husband knows how hard I work. He comes home to a (relatively) ordered house, dinner on the table, and clean, rested kids 5 days a week. I know how hard he works. He tends to the children at night, letting me rest. He puts the family above his job when it is necessary. He bears the brunt of having to decide when it is necessary, and having to decide when to discomfort me and the kids when he knows he needs to work late.

I don't like to be told to sell myself out to keep a man. If I can live with the (temporary) loss of a career, the shabbiest clothes I've ever owned in my life, the "family car" floor covered in kid detritus and furnished with bad brakes, changing diapers on sticky public restroom floors, the total vacuum of adult interaction during my days, days of semi-starvation and bad coffee fueling my neverending chores, and piercing, screaming voices in my ear at only the most opportune public tantrum moments? - then he can live with goddamn dirty diapers on the weekends.

We just blew in the door. I'm glad we put the effort into cleaning the house before we left for our trip. It always pays off. If only some wee elf would have snuck in my house and cleaned up my sewing room, which remains a disaster area.

My stomach has been hurting for two days now. Sharp, ulcer-ish pains. I am doing my typical thing - ignoring it in hopes it will go away. I am not usually a fan of denial, but it has its place. It could be the extremely poor nutrition, booze, and lack of physical exercise I exhibited during this holiday. What can I say? The weather was oppressive and the white-bread-and-ham sandwiches too sickeningly tempting.

In other news, I got to the latest Harry Potter film. I took my three year old, too. Yeah, it's scary. So what? She's tough. P.S. don't actually go to any Harry Potter websites or forums or imdb boards. Barfy, obsessive fans. Speaking of which: Ralph, my friend Cyn, and I are all watching "Firefly". OK, honestly. I'm not a sci-fi dork.

I'm not.

Me [yelling]: "Wouldn't it be cool if when you visited your hometown you had a cool and life-changing experience - like in the movie Garden State - instead of, like, this kind of shit?"

My husband [shouting back]: "I never saw Garden State."

Me [irritated]: "What?! We watched it together. Remember this guy goes back home because his mom dies, and he gets with a girl who has epilepsy, and he's on lithium but stops taking it?" (OK, not the best plot synopsis but keep in mind we are yelling at one another from the distance of three feet and can barely hear over the noise).

Ralph [stubbornly]: "I never saw it."

We're at an "Alumni Dance" on Thanksgiving eve. My alma mater graduated about 120 my senior year so you'd think I would know a bunch of people there. But I don't; in fact, I hardly know anyone. Everyone looks older or younger. There is cheap, assy booze, lots of cigarette smoke, and about four million clones all wearing baggy pants with boxers peeking out, baseball caps, and walking with the pronounced Eminem-cultivated-slouch. We are listening to a band called Alpha Dog playing Melloncamp's "Hurts So Good" - not too badly, I might add. I will later sagely pronounce this band as "technically proficient, but with all the wrong instincts."

On the other side of me is Amore, my best friend from middle- and high school. She and I are smoking and talking and trying not to fall prey to gawking. We are in agreement over who has the best boobs in the joint. As far as men go, the pickings are a little slimmer. It is only 11 PM but my eyes sting (even smokers hate smoke), I am hungry, and pissed that no one is dancing due in large part to mid-90s tripe being covered by the band. I like to dance. We do it anyway, for a song or two (including the obligatory Free hit).

What exactly is everyone here - a couple hundred or more, by the time we leave at 11:30 for a good drink at a local tavern - getting out of this event? No dancing, bad alcohol, not much mixing really. A cat-fight in the back of the room riles everyone up a bit, more than the music has all night. I wonder if I'm just leaving early and lame-assing out because I have kids. Don't think so, though. I have shut down more than one party over the last few years. This party just isn't working for me.

We head to the local bar - a smoke-free, clean establishment run by a local who graduated the year ahead of me. I see more people I know. Amore, Ralph and I each have a delicious, cold white russian (the only thing I could think to order) and, since the kitchen is closed, decide we have to hit the T-day leftovers for noshing. We giggle, talk to a few people in the bar, have a final smoke outside. Amore heads back to the dance to hang out with her boyfriend and friends; Ralph and I head back to my parents where our children are sleeping.

This morning Ralph leans over to me and says, "Hey, what was that movie we saw where this guy had a girlfriend and her family had lots of pets and they have a pet graveyard with all these graves? You know, he's on medication but deciding not to take it and visiting his hometown?"

Honest to God. No ironic twinkle in his eye, either. Sheesh.

Once again, at my 'rents for a few days. Here two hours and already an ex-boyfriend has dropped in (friend of the family). Small town. Which explains why I feel so comforted, yet stifled, from the minute I set foot on the lush and verdant soil that is Grays Harbor, Washington.
Tomorrow: grocery shopping with my mom, major meal prep for Thanksgiving. I adore cooking the big meal.

For now? Bedtime for me and little girl; glass of wine; a little reading before slumber.

I'm sitting on the front steps, a friend's olive drab coat thrown over my apron, having the first cigarette in a few days. My kids are inside playing peaceably, for now. I should be inside, cleaning. Detritus from lunch (spaghetti, carrot sticks, peanut butter) litter the table and floor. It will be the second time in a handful of hours I have planned, prepared, served, and cleaned up after a meal. Thank God we're going out to Mexican food tonight as a Thanksgiving celebration of sorts with friends. No dinner dishes.

My neighbor across the street pulls up in his gleaming forest green 4Runner. I never see it dirty. I wonder if I'll ever have a life like that: new home, impeccable yard, reliable vehicle. The van needs its brakes done and my yard is scraggly with crabgrass and dead sunflowers. However our heat and phone are working and my kids are happy. I'm good.

Inside the house, I hear my boy scream; I cock an ear. Happy babble resumes. Maybe I can finish my cigarette break. I watch my neighbor silently roll into his driveway. He checks the garbage can to see if it's been picked up yet. Very responsible of him. He was a sniper in the military, special-ops he tells me. Now he lives alone, kids grown. I bring him cookies, apple pie every once in a while.

Inside the house is warm; it smells inviting and a burner hums on the stove (what I'd used to light my cig). I pour myself a cup of coffee. My husband, no matter how hectic his morning is, makes me a fresh pot of coffee for the day. One of my many small comforts.

Time to set out clothes for the kids' post-bath. Scrub cemented noodle off the floor and process a dirty diaper so foul It-Shall-Not-Be-Named. Three more hours until my husband gets home and I get some adult company.

Last night I dreamed about you and it was so real, so vivid, that even as I woke I was under the belief you were here, in my life, again. As wakefulness surfaced and I lay still in bed next to my husband and firstborn child I began to know you were still gone, never to be seen again. A deep and profound sadness absorbed me; a deep sorrow for loss, for the lack of closure in a muddled but happy chapter in my life.

In some way you have come to represent so many of my losses. Those I know and love dying, ill; time and apathy swallowing up the friendships not meant to survive. How many of those losses can I count to myself now, when only a few years ago it seemed I had lost nothing? Death approaches, from what distance we can only lie to ourselves about. Even those I can reclaim in some way have still suffered a type of mortality we can't overcome.

This morning I turn the heat up, wash dishes, carry my little ones around the house and get them dressed. You and I: the breach between us is solid, established, insurmountable. I wonder where you are now; what you'd be doing if I still knew you.

I pour coffee, start a hot shower, and begin my day.

The boys at Susie's, Wednesday.


Nels at playschool, boobs in foreground.


A score from the thrift store - handmade toddler-sized sleeping bag, $3. My child loves it.

It has been another few days of too much party. As I type this, super cool Kelly friend in town - upstairs nursing her babe. Yeah, after all these years I made friends with a Kelly. How awesome is that?

Choice quote of Friday:

Steph: "I just don't want Christmas to be stressful this year. I just don't like it when it's like that."

SARAH HAYES: "Yeah. I like it all... relaxed and boozy."

May this be the sentiment for our holiday season.

What can possibly top this evening's conversation with my parents - wherein I find out my grandmother is slowly slipping into a coma and probably won't live much longer - except for fifteen minutes later when my dad says, "Oh. I guess I'm supposed to tell you. The doctor called. I have cancer again."

It's so amazing how denial works. I was still on the first part of the sentence fragment, thinking somehow "The doctor called..." has something to do with our hospital bill and why are they calling my parents? It's great how your brain tries to find a shortcut past the reality it just got dealt. You'd think I would be used to it. It will be his third time in less than five years. Yay chemo, here we come again.

I really can't stand the thought of my children growing up without knowing him. That is the thought that hits me over and over when I think of this disease lurking in his cells, coming up again and again. Irrational? Selfish? Well, fuck off. I just found out. A third time.

Welcome to Bummertown: Population, Me.

I am not a letter-writer. I have a couple friends who are. However - maybe I'm starting to become one. The first letter here - a Thank You So Much - was written to the store in question and Cc'd to the local paper (I don't think it was ever printed, though). My complaint letter is longer, but the story really takes a setup.

Letter 1
August 30, 2005
Editor, Port Townsend Leader:

I am writing to publicly thank the staff and clientele of Store A for assistance to my family. Today while picking out vegetables and with my back turned, the shopping cart holding my two young children fell over in a spectacular display of terrified wails and flying cherry tomatoes. Seconds after the incident I was surrounded by staff and customers consoling my children, cleaning the fallen groceries, offering water, and standing by to help in any way they could. My children were unhurt but spent several seconds crying in their mother’s arms, so I had no real opportunity to thank all who came to our aid. I deeply appreciate the community’s concern and assistance in a time of vulnerability.

Kelly Hogaboom

Letter 2
November 15, 2005
General Manager, Store B:

I am writing in regards to an incident yesterday morning involving my family at your Port Townsend store. Yesterday while shopping in the fabric department with my two young children, my 19-month old son became suddenly ill and without warning vomited all over himself, the floor, and me. I was horrified and dismayed, but, fortunately, very close to the bathroom.

With apologies to the fabric store clerk and a nearby customer, I hurried into the bathroom to triage the mess. There I spent a good ten minutes cleaning up myself, my crying son, and verbally distracting my three-year-old daughter as I did so. My son’s clothes and mine were soaked. I emerged from the bathroom with a bag of soiled clothing, a naked child, my shopping parcel, and a three-year-old in tow. At this point I signaled to the fabric store clerk, once again apologizing for the mess. She said, and I quote, “"Are you going to clean that up? I can't really do that" as she folded fabric at the cutting table. The entire mess lay as it had when I entered the bathroom.

I called attention to the fact that I had a sick (and naked) child as well as a toddler sibling in my care. She did not apologize or amend her statement. I went out to the parking lot, put my children in my car, asked an acquaintance to watch the vehicle, and went inside to clean up. Only after I approached the mess with a bucket, mop, garbage pail, and paper towels (retrieved from the restroom) did this employee tell me I didn’t have to clean the mess, that she would get someone else. Nevertheless, I cleaned up the mess entirely since I was already there and, still, no one else was doing it. In fact, both the fabric store worker and another employee watched, at one point suggesting disinfectant for the water I was using and pointing out a spot I missed, but neither making a move to help. When I was finished I put away the cleaning supplies and left. I did not receive further comment or apology from the clerk who seemed so callous to my situation.

I should add that the fellow customer nearby did follow me into the restroom, carrying my parcel and offering help. At no point did any employee of Store B extend a similar courtesy.

I question whether Store B’s official policy is to hold customers personally responsible to clean any accident they may cause. But more than that, the lack of compassion, friendliness, and action from the fabric clerk especially was nothing short of astounding. I was in the bathroom for a good ten minutes – ten minutes your clerk did not summon anyone to clean bodily fluids off the public store floor. This seems at the very least very unsafe for other customers.

I have supported Store B with my business for the six years I have lived in this town. I would like to know what kind of business policies I should relay to my local friends with young families.

Thank you for your time,

Kelly Hogaboom

To think just an hour ago I was musing, "Hmm, what shall I write about today?" Never fear - my children, the world at large, will always provide me with material. Warning: ever think to yourself, Gee, I like Kelly's writing - but sometimes she's a little dark / edgy / bitchy for my taste? If that's you, perhaps you should go look at kittenwar or something else.

So a little after ten this morning I hit the local we-have-everything store to get some buttons for the shirt I made my girlfriend's child (birthday party today). I'm headed to the fabric section - smugly thinking of how well I've scheduled everything: clean kids, great gift, carpooling with my good bud, Bloody Mary brunch and good times headed my way. As I round the corner of the fabric bolts Nels makes this funny hiccup. Hitches once, twice. I stop, look at him on my hip and think, He's not going to vomit, is he?

Oh yes indeedy. Copious, mucousy gluts of vomit. On me, on himself, on the floor (thank God he missed his sister, who is standing there with her mouth slightly open in awe). He's not much of a puker but, apparently, making up for lost time in this ONE forty-five second timeframe.

Well, there is something about being puked on in public by your progeny - all over oneself, all over the child (suddenly, now, displaying ominous signs of possible illness - in that split second your mind's eye can see the four-day lethargy on the horizon and remember how awful it was last time and that he lost two pounds in a week), and in such a way as to irrevocably alter your entire plan for the day - there's something about this scenario that throws even the most veteran Mama into a sort of Twilight Zone tailspin of panic. Of course, in addition I am immediately the subject of attention from an obviously dismayed fabric clerk (we did soil her working area, and I am apologizing for that even as I make for the bathroom) and a kind fellow shopper who follows me into the bathroom carrying my parcel and I'm so overwhelmed it takes me a few minutes to even see her, as I'm sorting things out.

I thank the fellow shopper profusely for her concern and dismiss her from our mess, mop up Nels, strip both our offending clothing off, find a plastic bag for the clothes, and mop up the floor as well before he can track too much all over. "Boot, boot!" he panics, pointing at the vomit on the toe of his favorite ass-kicking red footgear. I pull the boots off, toss them into the bag, and assure him I will be cleaning them up ASAP. I tell my daughter we have to leave now - no riding on the coin-op carousel, no shopping for buttons, and now no birthday party or kiddie carpool either. I gather up the sick child now clad only in a diaper - everything else being soaked - I head out the door. About ten minutes, eighty paper towels, and at least one good mood evaporated, but we are reasonably clean to head for the hills and go home to a bath.

As I walk by the fabric department I raise my hand to the clerk and tell her I am so sorry for the mess when she cuts me off and says, "Could you clean that up? I can't really do that." This is awesome. My anxiety, adrenaline, and exasperation are all supplanted by Righteous Mama Rage. I say, "Are you kidding me? I have two young children - one who is nude and obviously ill - and we are covered in vomit." I pause. Why not? I can do this. "OK," I tell her, "I'm going to put them in the car and I will come back and do just that." My voice is thundering. I am Kali and around my neck are the skulls of multitudes of sour-faced bitches like this one. I am going to clean her goddamn floor and annihilate her in the process and she is going to cower in fear.

I buckle my kids in the car, turn on the heat, and head back in. I am focused and calm, almost approaching the store floor cleaning in a loving, efficient way. Bucket with water, mop, paper towels. You are going to be able to eat off that floor. I approach the offending mess and the woman has obviously reconsidered her request: "Ma'am, if your kids are in the car you don't have to do that. I can get someone else to do it." That's OK, I have no need to speak to her. I hate her. Not one ounce of compassion or common sense from her when it mattered, so she is dead to me. I take my time, wiping up cold vomit lovingly and with great attention to detail. I am calm, not shaking, not even upset. The old bird doesn't help except to timidly point out a streak I missed. I can tell she's scared of me. Another clerk hovers by, "Do you want some disinfectant for that water?" she asks. I tell her, levelly, "You can do that if you want. My kids are out in my car and one of them is very sick." I am calm, but I also feel like crying. Looking back at this moment I wish I had remembered the kindness shown by the fellow shopper. All I am thinking at the time is how sometimes, with young children, no one gives a fuck, and no one helps, and when they fuck up they don't know how to say, "I'm sorry" afterwards, and lend a hand.

I am done cleaning and I put back the cleaning supplies. My motions are focused and calm. I am glad I cleaned up our mess. We are now going home. At this point, in the car, I briefly reflect on and grieve for the plans I was looking forward to. I was going to head out to a friend's house to celebrate. I was going to pick up my fun friend Abbi and take part in a family celebration. My children were going to play with their friends and I was going to have a bucket-sized Bloody Mary and, probably, Courtney's fabulous Guinness chocolate cake.

Instead, I am heading home, one spotless floor later, one sick kid to tend to, and a piquant episode of demonic transformation at the expense of a callous shop worker.

All in a morning's work.

It's true. I am popular. The minute I type these words I know I hex my likeable-ness and this time next week I will split the ass of my pants open at a fancy restaurant and have hateful eyes all laughing at me as my Visa card audibly gets declined with a loud BLEEP! in front of them all. But what can I say? It's true in The Now.

My popularity will hopefully increase the more I pull my shit together. Because let's face it, I have a lot that isn't going for me these days. For one, my organizational skills are not where they need to be to keep my Queen Bee status. Now, I never want to be the type of person who has so many friends they flake on engagements they commit to, and I am painfully close to that place. I am faltering in large part because my computer calendar is not up to speed (fuck you Tiger OS and all the upgrade implies for Casa Del Hogaboom!) and I simply can't keep more than 12 things in my head at any time, and at present six of those things are Anchorman quotes. So, for all of you whose calls and emails I do return and whose events I do show up on time for - know that it is a Sisyphean effort for me these days and it means I care about you very much.

Another huge check in the "Loser" category for me is that I am, for lack of a better term, a little slattern - mostly in the clothes department but also extending to hair and makeup factions. Usually I am wearing pants that have rips in the crotch, plain cotton socks with holes in the toes (always fun at a shoeless house), my they-were-cool-in-the-nineties Doc Martins (the only brand of shoes I own besides my fabulous Frye boots which have been made fun of for their 70's square-toed nature), and some too-tight Goodwill t-shirt. Must I continue? I do shower and launder daily and I try to make sure my ass crack doesn't show (no guarantees, though). That's as good as it gets for now. I'm not even going to go into the hair or makeup department except to say I now eschew scrunchies thanks to a recent catty remark from a friend of mine who shall not be named (thanks, Steph!). To be fair, she was knocking scrunchies in general, not I, and I haven't worn one since (maybe she's the Queen Bee, after all!).

Since I like things in groups of three, the third and last thing about myself I will identify as off-putting is my brash and occasionally foul mouth. To my credit, I can keep a civil tongue in my head and do in fact do just that for church and other social occasions where I know it will not be appreciated. But you know, I don't try that hard to be other than who I am verbally. It's a way to self-select those who might appreciate me. At any rate, along with my vitriol comes an eloquence that extends, I like to think, even beyond quotes from Will Ferrell movies. Or so I hope.

In related news, as pertains to one's social calendar, I am on Day 3 of a 4-parties-in-4-days bender. Lest you think I have some kind of partying awesomeness that gets me through 96 hours of heady debauchery I will point out two of the gatherings were / are birthdays for 2 year olds and one of them was a baby shower. So you know - a limited amount of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. In addition, last night I was also out with a girlfriend at a play (fabulously done by our local Paradise Theatre School) and got in at 11.

So, I feel like I've barely been home, barely been around the kids, and barely tuned into Ralph. Since Friday the time I have been home has consisted of cooking, cleaning, or sewing like mad. Luckily, my daughter's nap-skipping proclivities are helping an early bedtime for both kids and some reconnection with my husband. Speaking of, I believe he just returned home with a movie - time to take my lovable self upstairs for a little couchtime snuggle and (hopefully) makeout.

I just got back from a birthday party at a bar with a lot of lovely women and their lovely men. Interestingly, I was actually told several times not to blog such-and-such a conversation or, alternatively, asked if I'd been writing about so-and-so when I wrote this-or-that (yes, I realize by even typing this sentence I am violating my 1st Blog Principle: Don't Blog About Blogging). Honestly, people, am I some kind of society-column harpy that I'm going to immediately run home and bang out every little juicy tidbit from our shared social life? (P.S. Damn Janel's ass looked good tonight!!).

I drank lemon ice water the whole time, which can be hard to do when you're in a bar for three hours. This was in large part because I misplaced my fricken purse mere minutes before the party. And also because booze and good sleep just don't mix for me - and tonight I choose sleep. I was offered a free drink no fewer than six times by several people. First, let me say how very, very sweet of my friends! But you know? I've done the I-don't-have-cash-so-I-let-someone-cover-me thing (as a gift or payback, both) before. It's so damn tired. If I'm going to leave my booty behind I've gotta suffer the consequences. And really, the group were such wonderful, entertaining people I was glad to have a clear eye and a sharp mind (well, as sharp as my mind gets) to enjoy them. A bit of ass-kissing here for my friends, but I do mean it.

Not sure how it happened but at some point a few of us started talking about our underthings which led to a little show and tell - entirely PG by the way. Unfortunately since I was in a dress (yes, I know how to wear one) I was unable to share my blue Victoria's Secret boy briefs - my favorite pair, actually - without having to hike up my whole kit. So, I refrained. Another instance where stone-cold sobriety helped crucial decision-making. And yes, I know I am obsessed with panties. There's just so much to like!

This afternoon I sewed obsessively on my girlfriends' present (a red velvet purse) to have it done in time for the party. Man, I am such a sewing dork. Make friends with me and get some stupid sewn thing that I obsessed far more on than you could ever grow to love it. I suppose I should start buying the more typical bath salts or what-have-you type of thing (suggestions appreciated). It isn't that I'm cheap (in fact I spend far too much on fabric) it's that I love sewing and would sew myself a baby if that worked.

Well. I smell like smoke. My downstairs is cold. And I'm ready to jump in the shower, get into soft PJs and snuggle with my husband.

Nightie-night.

How about a photo essay of today's rainy afternoon?


I'm a sewing dork. Whipped up these last night in about an hour. She's tuff and she's got the cowboy PJs to prove it (note split lip from a rumble at preschool today).

The following are all taken by my girlchild, who commandeered the camera about three seconds after the above picture:


I fucked with my hair this weekend. Or rather, I paid another woman to fuck with it. 'Tis good.


Tee-hee, here's my new LJ icon! Except not really. Again, good photo chops, Sophie.


Nels in the bath, looking wet and fro-ish.

Today a girlfriend may have committed minor sabotage on my tomboy plans for my daughter by taking her to a few minutes of a ballet lesson for little girls. What could I do? There was no legitimate objection I could think of. Sophie later mentioned the "beautiful dresses" and I asked her, "Who thought they were pretty?" and she replied, "Abbi decided." Yeah, I thought so. I wasn't there, and although Sophie probably found the concept of running around in a tutu and dancing pretty fun, I really don't know how taken she was with the girliness of it all (there are no Billy Elliots in this class, sadly). Honestly? It doesn't seem her bag, and I'll bet I don't hear another word about it. With her personality and the way we spend our time, I don't see a lot of uber-feminine behavior in her future.

Or at least - my God, I hope not. But it's not up to me. And I admit I have a chip on my shoulder about it.

Am I the only parent who just finds the boy vs.girl shit totally annoying? I don't mean the different clothing, toys, and color preferences we see in our children - we can talk all day about how these divisions along gender lines can be chalked up to biology or culture. I don't really care either way and I'm not seeking to force a more egalitarian model on children and families who aren't interested. No, I mean how quickly parents seem to want to jump on a child's sex as a reason, justification, excuse, or means to something the parent finds mentally, physically, or emotionally convenient. Are ponies a hit, and therefore the easy (lazy) choice for toys come the holidays? Not feeling like pulling your little wee man off the neighbor dog as he pummels it? Ah, time to whip out the "Boys are so high energy...", "It's so true, girls love horses..." tripe. Snore.

I'm not a girlie-girl. I'm a woman. My nonplussed attitude to all things saccharine goes way back. As a child I remember running around with my brother on the public beach with tar cemented to the soles of our feet while wearing a pair of briefs and no top (anthology of Southern California Hippie Trash forthcoming, one of these days). For toys I had books and Legos, Legos, and ... more Legos. Not one Barbie, Cabbage Patch doll, or Care Bear ever in my possession (there were some My Little Ponies, if I remember). Dresses, I wore as a little girl, abandoned for years as soon as I hit second grade or so, and now only rarely wear with shorts or tights underneath so I can do what I normally do with my legs - squat, spread 'em, and bend over - without worrying about it.

I don't have a problem with the traditionally feminine in principle; I just know I'm going to be at a loss if my daughter goes for the Easy-Bake Holly Hobby Fucking Oven Set. So far? Not really. She favors dinosaurs and bugs; the last toy I bought her was a Mummy card set and she's been working on memorizing Egyptian gods. My son sleeps with a Madeline doll (Sophie never took to a doll of any sort except this hideous lizard my sister sent her months ago), but he also displays such "masculine" traits as pummeling the neighbor dog (which we don't let him get away with) and fondling his genitals. Hmmm, as I'm writing this I'm realizing my kids aren't so much masculine or feminine, as unappealing.

But, in a non-gender-specific kind of way, I guess.

If it was like this every day I'd quit my day job.

Yesterday afternoon a mere forty minutes after my family pulled out of my driveway - just after forcing my brother to be my Meatball Bitch as he helped me whip up a crockpot full of sizzlin' meaty love - I hit the road with Child #1 for a little Tacoma-area party of Hip Mamas. Up until 3 AM with my new alltime favorite Kelly, hitting the Winstons and red wine and taking turns settling children to bed. Up in the AM - morning bathtime (two kids, one tub - much love); walk; morning coffee; breakfast; goodbyes and a Cher CD (thank you, honey!) and then on the road.

An hour after I get home today and our normal Monday afternoon babysitter has cancelled (a 2 hours I was hoping to rest up therein), I am beat from the night previous' 3 AM to 7:30 AM sleep stint. I call a girlfriend to invite myself over for a playdate and she says, "Oh, so-and-so's coming and we're having Bloody Marys!" Ahhhh... If I can't have a nap this afternoon, that should do nicely.

I bring a little snackage but girls A and B are about the frostilicious cocktails. We bundle the four kids up and head out to the porch where we watch them frolic and climb all over one another and poke the dog in the eyeball (good sport, pooch!). The kids are playing / screaming / begging for our attention and we're in wooden rockers sipping giant- and I mean massive - pickle jars of Bloody Mary and playing the Name-That-Tune, 80's Version (Yes. Yes! We are that cheesy. You are just fucken jealous you weren't there!). I humiliate myself with my first pick - a Kraftwerk song - and take it down to Top 40. Problem is with 80's hits - the one line you remember usually has the title in the lyric.

A few minutes until my husband gets home. I thank the hostess (I've just been infringing on hospitality the last 24 hours!), pack the kids up, and head home with my tribute Cher CD on rather loudly. Inside, I run a bath and the kids and I partake of a little splashy loving fun for a few minutes until Daddy gets home.

Now that's my kind of parenting day.

And now, a brief photo essay of the family's visit this weekend:

My parents' sweet ride. I grew up in one of these, you know. It was bigger, less shiny, and wanted by the cops occasionally when my parents would, oh, leave my brother and I in it to go play pool in the tavern. True story.


My parents' new "dog". I'm not going to say a word.


My brother, in one of a series of "Meat Slavery" episodes between us. Note belligerent expression. This is what I have to deal with. To be truthful, he did a great job with the cooking duty and didn't even sample a meatball of his own. After I slapped him with that searing greasy spatula, anyway.


'Sup?

Tonight I witnessed something that haunts a mother's memory - my 19-month old son, pulling a fresh, hot cup of coffee on top of his head, quicker than I was able to do anything about it.

It's really a miracle something like this hadn't happened yet, given the family's proclivity toward hot beverages and my son's monkey-like nature. In this case it was bizarre because there were fully seven adults in the nearabouts when it happened, yet - it still happened. He reached up to the table and pulled it down, no doubt expecting a much-less-full vessel full of much-more-tepid liquid.

We all saw the ensuing disaster and curiously the whole room sort of fell back in a hush and a beat later his angry scream tore through the house and I rushed over and peeled his hot, wet pajama shirt off him, held him close, and said to my empty-handed but hovering brother, "Get me a washcloth with cold water." I don't think I overdid the drama or anything (good for me!). I could already tell he wasn't scalded but I wanted cool water on hand, and when Billy put the dishtowel in my hand I applied it to his shoulders. He was already much calmer. "Pat him with it, don't rub it into his skin" I heard my mother advise fretfully. Minutes later he was calm again, if a little cuddly and icky-sweet smelling. Tuff li'l fucker.

And this whole episode was after two glasses of wine with dinner. Quick thinking, Mama. After orchestrating a dinner for nine.

I'm going to sleep well tonight.

My family is here in town. Mom, dad, and brother all pulled up in Bus Shanty II about 12 hours ago. We're gonna party like, well, like lame-ass family where you mostly eat a bunch and watch movies, I guess.

My husband and I have been sleeping with our three year old between us. It's like the world's best teddy bear. The other morning at about 5 AM she stirred and put her arms around me and said, "Mama, do you like pumpkins?" and I said, "Yes Sophie, I do." She sighed and went back to sleep. Later that day she told me she'd been dreaming about Halloween.

A couple hours ago in bed she surfaced as I pulled covers around me (it takes forever for me to warm up in bed!) and said - in the softest, most scratchy little voice, "Mama, wake up, I want to tell you somefeeg". Poor little tyke - drifted back off to sleep before she could divulge any more.

Part Two
of a Five Part Series

Fortunately I am in a place of my life, and with friends in my life, where out-and-out hostility is kept to a minimum in social circles (as far as I can tell). Nevertheless I observe it occasionally, and sometimes it's downright subtle, if still hurtful. Ah, if only it were as simple as it once was, like the time in tenth grade you were horrified to read the words, "Kathleen gives hed [sic] for lunch money" scribbled on the paper towel dispenser in purple Sharpie. But no, along with our life experience, responsibilities, family-friendly sedan and 401Ks, women have adopted new, but still poignant, ways to skewer one another in a social setting.

The first I want to outline is one of my favorites, and one I'm most sensitive to: the TMI Snub (as in, "Too Much Information!"). This can take the form of a woman loudly voicing that another's talk about her C-section is putting her off her morning scone (the inference being that the C-section gal is being way too gross) and usually stops the "oversharer" right in her tracks. No wonder - who of us wants to realize what we're saying is disgusting or inappropriate? The "TMIer" gets to be the one setting the rules about what is or isn't OK to share, and for some women, this power play is all too tempting.

I have always had a hard time with this one. I feel that, if some gal in the group says their husband wanted oral sex last night and they felt too bitchy to comply, they may very likely immediately regret the decision to make that disclosure. So to have the inevitable gleeful "Whoa... I did not need to hear that!" pounce seems not only unnecessary but, in the case that the "offending" storyteller was actually being vulnerable by sharing, cruel. Do I think every personal story is appropriate for public voice? No. I do go home and tell my husband some of the eye-widening disclosures I hear and we either have a good laugh or a bad cringe (that's the rule in Casa del Hogaboom - what the wife knows, the husband knows, and vice versa).

There's another aggressive move I have observed that tends to afflict a select few poor ladies: the Talking-Over. Now, in a group with my friends, peers, and acquaintances, there are often multiple conversations taking place, and yes, quite a few interruptions. But most of these are rather benign. I'm speaking of when someone truly has "the floor" - inviting people to a baby shower, or giving directions in a class-like setting, say. I have seen women who appear entirely non-confrontational in most regards employ this nefarious scheme. It only takes a willing second party and a shared whisper-level conversation to send the message to the speaker that she is Shunned. I might add it makes me nervous those times when a would-be-saboteur attempts to draw me into the "side" conversation.

One caveat - you may notice in the groups I hang out in (especially among newer moms), that one woman's story often gets commandeered into another's (i.e. "So - I went to the co-op yesterday and I saw they were taking applications for a new produce manager..." "Oh my God! Are they finally getting rid of that freak who always has bare feet? You know he is so rude ..." and so on). I honestly think that's often just new-moms-have-no-brains-due-to-nursing hormones and the offender, if called on the hijack, will almost always apologize. Keep in mind too that the hijacker is probably starved for adult companionship, and may just be easily overexcited (hee hee - guilty!). By the way, in my case, it's the triple cappuccino I had for breakfast.

And finally, there's out-and-out rudeness. Of the three expressed hostilities I've outlined here, this is, perhaps surprisingly, the one I'm most likely to commit. It happened not that long ago, actually - I was in a public situation where a group of moms were hanging out and about half of us were not observing a technical but rarely-observed policy at the facilities (let's say, oh, public urination). A certain mom - whom I don't get on that well with, and who I feel generally uncomfortable around - was obviously bugged at the ignored rule and cast about for eye contact - finally making it with me, since I have been trying to be nicer to her - and she said, "You're not supposed to pee on the grass, you know!" *. Instantly my tenuous efforts to forge the gap between us went up in smoke, and I was irritated. I gave her the dead-eye stare, "Yeah, I know." No one else backed her up and minutes later she had vanished while I was left feeling assholian.

So just remember, ladies - just because your subtext can be subtle, doesn't mean it isn't happening. I guess I'm just glad no one's leaving notes in lockers anymore, "Welcome to Loserville; Population: You".

* I am obviously using a fictitious example here to protect the situation and that Nasty Little Rule-Follower from being identified!

Part One

Today, for more or less arbitrary reasons, but sparked by a couple similarly-themed conversations I've been a part of recently, I have decided to embark on a 5-part series of essays (read: patently stupid rants) on the subjects of cliques, exclusivity, and gossip as they manifest themselves in the world of breedin'.

That is, we all can relate to our own individual junior high and / or high school experience of groups and exclusivity. Ah-ha! See? I know a few of you shuddered at the point of reading the phrase "junior high" and are already reliving the period-spot-on-my-jeans moment in World Issues or the volleyball-scrimmage-humiliation at the hands of that Amazon bitch on Varsity. Some of you are determinedly blocking out the memory of the chola bangs and pegged pants you adopted to keep your position in your group. And then there are those who are thinking, "Aw, it wasn't that bad!" (and just so you know, *you* are the Amazon bitch on Varsity!). At any rate, whether we were a bonafide target, a "floater", or a Queen Bee, we all have our opinions of what is or isn't happening, and we all could use a little refresher to figure out who we want to bring to our little community.

I don't have too far to look for examples. A very close friend calls me recently and relates, entirely innocently, a story of running into another mom and child which includes a very short account of something naughty the child did. Now, I know the mother of the "naughty" child in question - let's call her "My Mom"* for short - has been the object of at least three conversations behind her back about her child and her so-called not-up-to-par parenting. I have heard snippets of (and moved away from) two of these conversations regarding My Mom, and was directly asked in to weigh in on a third. Luckily, I was able to express my truth succinctly: "If you feel there are problems, you should confront My Mom about them. I'm sure she'd listen." I did not even once fall prey to utter a save-ass, "Oh, yeah, I know what you mean..." which thereby, in my mind, gives sanction to further back-talk. My expressed truth stopped the conversation more or less in it's tracks, which worked for me (to this day, I don't know if any of those talking about My Mom has indeed confronted My Mom on any of these issues).

In my conversation with my friend, as she weighs in with her assessment of the episode involving My Mom and her child, I say, "Well, maybe you can join the ranks of gals maligning My Mom for her parenting." (ding! ding! gossip alert). My girlfriend draws back. She is not interested at all in that kind of talk (bless her heart!). She probably knows how much she would hate to be the victim of some coven of bitches whispering behind her back (interestingly enough, this friend of mine was a Slut back in the day - in the way I call myself one - and perhaps understands the nastiness that can be inflicted when women are loose about their discussion standards). I don't name the particular gals who've been discussing My Mom; we move on to something else (talking about our own rotten kids!).

If you've read carefully (if you're still reading at all) you see that there were fully five Gossip Snares in that story. The first three are the conversations regarding My Mom when she wasn't there. The fourth being the opportunity to bash My Mom when my friend called and related how naughty My Mom's child had been (remember, I would have had the "backup" of the friends who'd been discussing her). And the fifth, and most treacherous, being my girlfriend and I gossiping about the gossipers and what bitches they were to gossip! Follow me? If you don't, it's because I've had a glass of wine as I type this - or you are male. No offense, Rambo.

I am proud I resisted all five gossip snares regarding My Mom, but I am left wondering what my responsibility is to My Mom herself. Do I let her know "The Others" have been talking about her? What would be the point, unless I named them? And if I named them, wouldn't I be gossiping? If I was My Mom, wouldn't I want to know this was happening?

There are no easy answers here, except I guess to make saintly friends or plug my ears and loudly exclaim, "Knock that shit off!" when I hear this sort of thing.

You tell me, ladies.

* I love teasing my real mom, in any way I can!

Today I had one of those great moments where you are ignoring or irritated at your child only to tune in and be instantly ashamed at how good /smart / docile they're truly being. I was at playschool and trying to write some announcement on the whiteboard when Devil Child #1 erases half of it while I'm adding the flourishing touches so I have to start over. I'm all irritated, re-writing, preoccupied, and she is carrying on about wanting a marker to write with too, blah blah. Fine, fine, I chuck one down at her like a small javelin (OK, I'm only kidding - I handed it to her). I'm writing furiously and again I hear her duck-like voice carrying on and I finally look down and she has successfully copied a "p", "l", and "a" down and is starting on the "y". Kind of the first time ever she's written anything besides a letter or two. Wow. I'm totally impressed. And sorry I was about to snuff her candle out because she wouldn't Shut Up While Mama Is Trying To Finish Something!!

Yesterday afternoon. Trekkin':

Yeah, I live in no-precipitation PT but I still bundle my kids like a mofo. Sorry - but the rights of a Mama prevail over common temperature sense. I hear their mocking, smarmy voices in future-echoes from a sitdown with the photo album. And don't say anything about their matching Land's End gear. The Grandma provides.


The closest to a "real picture" I could get. The little shits wouldn't pose, or even look at me, actually. They look like, if we're lucky, they might break into a dance routine. Nels is dead-on-his-feet tired, but the spread legs provide stability.

It's early AM, my kids are sleeping, and I should be doing something productive, but I'm here writing instead.

I had two wicked dreams last night. Maybe the Halloween thing? Well, I'm going to lay them out here and you can read them and think, "Wow, she's really shallow / nuts / weird" or what-have-you.

In my first dream I was birthing another baby, here at home - in fact in the same room Nels was born in (what is now my sewing room). My husband and family were home but it was late at night so I was just kinda goin' it solo for a bit (I had it under control). When the baby crowned I called out to Ralph to wake up and come help - it occurred to me perhaps I would need assistance if the head got stuck. It didn't, though; and even as Ralph came downstairs the baby slid out into my arms (I was squatting), wet and dark. Ralph burst into the room and saw his third child for the first time. I thought to myself, "OK, hospital birth first time; home birth the second - unattended birth?! I am going too far! ... Oh well." Or something along those lines.

The thing that struck me about this dream was how real it seemed. The sensation of crowning and the mild state of disbelief you are in when you realize all your hard work is almost done, and the baby is almost here - it was so real, so familiar, so wonderful. I wish I could have a birth dream every now and then to remind myself.

If you're asking yourself, "Does this mean Hogaboom Child #3 is a possibility?" my answer is still, "No way." With a lot of expletives attached.

My second dream was unpleasant. As I type this, a child is on my lap, so I'll be brief - a small horde of my peers, judging, persecuting me. Relentlessly. I haven't had anything along the lines of this sort of Carrie experience in my life nor dreamed about it in a long time, either. A new bloom of personal insecurity on the way? Or a perfectly normal bout of "everybody hates me" paranoia? You make the call.