Life is Art

My son bursts out of the hallway and tears into the living room, yelling his head off and waving his arms in his typical, I-totally-believe-I-am-ten-feet-rather-than-two-feet-tall role as "Punisher".

Ralph: "What the hell is wrong with him?"

Kelly [focussing a keen eye]: "Did you tighten his pigtails? That's always an unpopular move."

Ralph: "Oh! Yeah, I did. Okay."


Drowned rat.

I have a respectable vocabulary. Recently a good friend IM'd to ask about my use of the verb "enroach". She'd noticed I used it similarly to her understanding of the word "encroach". And her opinion of my vocabulary is seemingly such that she'd assumed - this is the adorable part - I had knowledge of some more specific use of the term, not that I'd just been pronouncing the word incorrectly (the issue was complicated by the fact that a Google search of my "word" indicates others make the same mistake). Oh well. Even though I swear to God I've never heard "encroach" before, I'm one to admit that it's me, not the whole world, that's crazy, and I plan to practice the correct term and use it forthwith. (P.S. I still like "enroach" better.)

Anyway, it's rare in conversation that I don't know, or can't infer correctly, the meaning of any word thrown at me. But the first time I heard the expression "pariah" in casual conversation a few years ago at school I had no fricken idea what to do with it. It was also kind of a stand-alone statement that I couldn't use context to sort out. It was said by an "older" university student (probably mid-thirties) who was feeling bitter and cast-out from our smallish cadre of engineering dorks (most of us in our very early 20s) working on group projects. I had to look it up later and I was surprised to find out what it meant. I didn't think of her as an outcast, but her reference made me reconsider her character more carefully, and I realized she acted the part. And, apparently, decided it was the group that made this decision for her.

Completely sidestepping as to why a married, mid-thirties woman with a perfectly lovely family and decent grade-point-average would want to run with a few frat boys and math nerds who still did laundry at their parents' homes, I do find the subject of "outcast" to be a rather interesting one. Recently I observed two separate incidents of women who, I have reason to believe, consider themselves on the fringe of the larger group(s) of Mamas that run around these parts. And when I say "fringe", I don't mean in a I-dress-sexier-than-other-Mamas-and-that-makes-me-so-different smug/(secretly insecure) inner monologue or any other kind of positive and/or self-enacted policy - I mean in a misunderstood, often unwelcome, and "it's everyone who doesn't like me" way. In these incidents I watched these women come into a social situation and basically crawl into a corner with their respective children rather than boisterously (or even openly) saying "Hi!" to any women already at the gathering.

Although I have no particular grudge against either of these women (I have been annoyed by each of them precisely once and twice, respectively; I have discarded my annoyance[s] as petty and have not treated these ladies poorly since, if ever at all), they both did not approach or make eye contact with me in any way. Because, you know, apparently I, Kelly Hogaboom, am part of the larger "group" of we're-too-good-for-you bitches at the gathering. For about ten minutes I wrangled my child and shot a friendly eye toward one woman; finally, I approached her and made conversation. Easy as pie. For me, anyway.

Going further along the path of projection and interpretation (and firmly miring me in the series of "That wasn't me you were talking about, was it?" emails and behind-my-back speculations this blog often earns me) I have to wonder what kind of person would rather feel shunned than know she has the right to gather where the rest of the group does; what kind of person would operate under the firm delusion that she has more social wounds than the rest of us (unless I'm missing some horrible conspiracy aimed at these women and occurring unnoticed right under my nose); what kind of person is so sure that the bad feelings they retain couldn't possibly harbor any room for simple, if microscopically tragic, misunderstanding[s].

I can't remember the last time I indulged myself in feeling left out. Now, I could wait a few minutes for some humiliating incident to flood my memory banks, but instead I'll just continue to write on the point I'm all fired up about. When it comes down to it, I think it's a choice to give in to the role of pariah. Sure, we all feel like the stand-out at times - the "sole single mother in the group", the "only woman not invited to So-and-So's party", the one with "the unfortunate case of ass-herpes everyone knows about", etc. I have often been the youngest; sometimes I find myself the most foul-mouthed or the most opinionated (honestly, though, those are hardly traits that sum me up; I can also be quite genteel and even tuck my boobs into my clothing when social decorum requires it) and yes, there have been parties I wasn't invited to (the whole facade of being afraid to mention a party, in case someone in the group wasn't invited, is a bunch of self-fulfilling Queen Bee hurt feelings setup bullshit that I'll have to rant about some other time). But honestly, when it comes down to it? I'm an outcast if either A. "the group" commits some horrid, consistent, Carrie-like cruelty toward me, or B. I decide to feel like I am.

And as bitchy and weird as this little town can get, I haven't seen anyone suffer any prom victimization ala bucket o' pig blood. At least, not any time recently.

As for me? I'm going to march right up to you and say "Hi". If I don't, it's because my kids are giving me hell or some other unrelated issue. Not because I hate you. Just so you know. And count on me to directly confront you if anything changes.

Last night Sara and I went to see "Intelligence" at the Paradise Theatre School (a great performance, BTW). A couple hours before I was due at her house she called and (somewhat sternly, I thought) advised, "Dress slutty!" Now, this is the second time in as many months a girlfriend has specifically asked me to whore it up a bit. I'm starting to feel insecure because, sadly, I have no slut gear. Luckily earlier that day I found some eyeliner on the street (that is not slang - I literally found it in the gutter) so I was at least able to fuck my eyes up a bit. P.S. that evening after we got back to Sara's place I had a streak or two to show for my first-time-in-a-year eyeliner experimentation. Thank you, fellow theatre goers who did not mention this to me while we chatted in the lobby.

My kids have been so good lately I feel like a bad mom. A bad mom for feeling relaxed and enjoying my day, I guess. Nels naps long and well in the afternoon; he is agreeable to any kind of outing during our mornings together - the only challenges for me: overcoming cold weather and a lack of funds. My daughter's at-home behavior borders on absurdly perfect. She colors, then puts her crayons away. Asks to help sew. Dresses herself promptly after a mid-day bath. Reads to herself on the couch, gets sleepy, and tucks herself in for a nap (I am not making this up). Today before her nap she ate some egg and noodle soup, then an entire miniature salad, veggies and all. It's a sickness in Mamas: we like to see our child eat. And eat well. It can go the other way too, you know - watching them devour and entire loaded-up ice cream cone seats terror in the pit of your stomach.

I'm looking forward to tonight's date. I'm thinking the Maker's Mark Manhattan down at Water Street Pub. Drooool...

What's better than Leslie Feist's '05 album release Let it Die? Not being Canadian. Oh, relax. I'm just joking. In fact, "some of my best friends are Canadian." I love the Maple Leaf State and all I know who hail from therein, but sometimes I can't keep a good wisecrack to myself.

My other recent purchase is the Brokeback Mountain soundtrack. And speaking of wisecracks, why is it everytime I mention the film or the music people simply must make some sort of nervous comment? - yes, even those uber-PC PNw'ers I hang out with. "Oh, Fagback Mountain! ... Yeah, how is the music, anyway?" It's weird - we all know it's fine to be gay, it's fine to be a cowboy (altho' there is a lot of anti-cowboy sentiment out there these days - maybe more so than homophobia), and that the movie itself is a good one, but we still get a titter thinking of Jake and Heath ropin' steer together (another related and rather excellent titter awaits you here).

The soundtrack and score are brilliant. My favorite song is Steve Earle's "The Devil's Right Hand" which went unnoticed by me in the film but lept out while listening to the album. It's been in heavy rotation with the kids and I. I have never experienced Steve Earle in any way besides knowing his name, as I have been heretofore terrified of country music (besides my Patsy, Willie, Johnny, and Emmylou which are trendy as all fuck these days). I am a sucker for a murder ballad, besides. And guys who mumble-sing - hot!

So obviously the iTunes Music Store is working for me. It's fast, it's affordable, the reviews are (often, though not always) helpful, and I can listen to clips really quickly with lightning-speed buffering and none of the choppiness I've always hated about audio online (the improvements are a combo of my connection speed and updated software, I'm sure). The iTunes 6 little mini-store window is doing me in. But - I love it. So, enough Apple fan-dom. I'm not going to go into my drawn-out iMac story, which is still sort of in a weird limbo. Maybe I'm just seeking out iTunes to dull the pain with pleasing, albeit Canadian, results (there I go again!).

Speaking of hardware, my husband has been doing a great deal of freelance work in his free time. I do not press him to do this, nor do I discourage. The extra jingle is nice. I've been noticing he's been working to the point of distraction and several nights a week he tells me he is "dropping off [insert female name]'s computer" at 9 at night or so. I am beginning to think he is pimping his ass rather than installing drivers. Anyone with any information on that issue, let me know.

Now that I've offended everyone by my cow"boi" references, just-in-fun Canada-bashing, and intention to further foray into country music listening, I'm going to finish tidying up the house and have a rainy-day fort-building exercise with my kids.

Last night at about 10 PM I came downstairs and a rat ran out from under my computer desk. What amazed me was how quickly my mind reacted to this sighting. It was like slow-motion, but all in a millisecond, and I could identify each and every thought that raced through my brain.

First, my mind immediately identified the creature correctly as a big fucking rat. This always amazes me, how quickly our brain can identify something that was unexpected or not supposed to be there. Of course, this identification process is primal in nature and carries no emotional content - leaving me to have several other reactions before my feelings kicked in. So secondly, I noticed that the creature looked quite healthy, almost glossy, and I thought, "Someone's been taking care of this thing!" Then I thought, "Great, we probably have gross rat shit in our house. At the very least, I'm going to be hearing those creepy pitter-pat sounds at night." The fourth thing that occurred to me was, "OK. This is gross. I am so dismayed there is a rat in my home." And finally, since my thought process was happening so quickly, I had time to muse to myself, "I could try to catch it, right now, as it is just now making a break for it." But I stood there and watched the vile little thing instead.

After the rat had startled, balked, and darted around the room and behind the dryer, I finally had time to get a good shudder of revulsion in. I peered into the corner where the rat had run off. Great, I thought. Now we'll have to get some traps or some damn thing. Two minutes later my husband came downstairs and I told him, "I just saw a rat down here." I'm showing him where the rat ran and then, from our attic, our cat lazily strolls down.

I'm not going to lie. I said a few nasty, sarcastic remarks about our fat, shiny-pelted fed-on-cream cat's indolence as she pauses in the rec room to look at us, seemingly not giving a damn nor doing her job when it comes to aliens of the creepy rodent nature. I had a good laugh at her expense. "You suck, Blackie." Then, rodent issues aside, Ralph and I performed our various to-bed rituals and settled down to bed for the night.

At about 11:00 PM, less than an hour later as I'm just drifting off, I hear a thump from somewhere in the house and my eyes spring open. "Ralph," I say ("Ralph!" echoes the now-awake Sophie in between us), "Would you go check that out?" My husband slides out of bed and down the hall and I hear him go downstairs. A few moments later I hear the back door open and close. Then he's back. "Blackie caught the rat." He says. "It was lying in the middle of the floor downstairs, dead." Then, "You owe that cat an apology," he says, as an afterthought.

The sad thing is, I know he's right.

Please complete the following pop quiz regarding my new, Holy-Shit-It's-Still-Winter-Enough-Already hair effect.

The most recent change was instigated for what motives?


A. Mistakenly believing I am young / cool / edgy enough to wear weird hair with dignity. Lara at PT's own Curl Up & Die salon (yes, I love the name too) is a talented young woman, but I have to confess I'm a wee bit disappointed... I told her I wanted a natural-looking green.


B. A tactical move away from"Brassy Whore" to "Hot Topic teenybopper sympathizer". Extra credit for any dork who recognizes what's on my shirt.


C. Becoming a master villian (Cat's ass not included, sinister mustache only).

The correct answer is D: I colored it to match my family van.

Bonus question:


Would you make out with this boy? The inflamed eyes, zombie-like patina courtesty of calamine lotion, and two of the world's Saddest Pigtails Ever complete the pathos.

kelly
3:28
oh man! just got back from grocery shopping...

as I'm buckling Hank into his carseat, neighboring car owner approaches to point out that my car is touching hers.

"Oops. Sorry about that. Is it ok?"

"Yeah. It's obvious that you have a piece of crap car and you don't care about it."

los bitcho
3:30
she said that?!

kelly
3:30
Me, "Wow! Just don't get a good public shaming often enough these days!"
...
"Do you need my insurance info?"

los bitcho
3:32
that is really what-all was said?

kelly
3:32
yeah. You will have to use your imagination to visualize the disgust on her face.

los bitcho
3:35
yeah, that is icky.

not that i have an ulterior motive, but you know, that kind of nastiness SO rarely happens in PT.

kelly
3:36
it was weird.

especially from another woman, while I'm with Hank.

los bitcho
3:38
you could have said (after the "piece-of-crap car that you don't care about" comment), in the voice of a nature show host: "Today's White Trash female, contrary to popular opinion, has elevated her social position to occasionally clean and care for her possessions, as meager as they may be. The young unwed mother will actually occasionally clean, keep track of, and provide care for her vehicles, furniture, and children - that is, if she's not a meth-d out pole dancer."

i mean, does this woman realize that even though you own things below her standard (you're really bringing Hilltop down, i meant to talk to you about this) anyway, as i said - even though from her perspective you and your vehicle are basically REFUSE, that you actually do track how many dents and shit are in it?

kelly
3:39
damn! that wouldv'e been awesome!

Last night I met with a girlfriend over a mojito (her) and a hot toddy (me). Things had gotten a little tense in our group and after it all sorted itself out (mostly) I realized that at the very least it was time for a talk between the two of us. A half hour into our discussion I'm glad we're doing it - although part of me dreaded it for a while - and we are both more relaxed. Soon we turn to the subject of our female friendships in our mutual peer group. "I haven't had so many challenges in sorting myself out socially since junior high," I muse. As I say it, I suddenly realize it is true.

It's the (new) Mama-thing. Weird shit happens when you get all the juice going - the biological drives of a huntress and a lioness with new cubs - and this ferocity and these fear(s) funnel into your choices of what kind of Mama you're going to be, what kind of parents you were raised by (if at all) and how you feel about it, what your choices of friends means about your social class and lifestyle ... the list goes on and on. The sudden, vomitous baggage we bring plays out in a multitude of ways, but it boils down to this: I've become rather deliberate in who I call "Friend" and who I call, well - I haven't really come up with a term for it yet - so in my mind it's "friend" without a capital "F" (sometimes I substitute "acquaintance", which seems a little cold). I have many friends in town, but only a few close ones. They probably do not explicitly recognize the trust I place in them. They're my safe place. Anyone else, especially in the larger group? Not so safe.

Does it sound like I'm being a paranoid jerk? I'm not. I'm able to feel safe with those I'm close to, enjoy the larger group, and spend little time guessing what so-and-so meant when she said such-and-such (yes, this kind of shit is exactly what resurfaces during new-Mamahood). Maybe I'll feel better in a few years, when we've all settled down and rejoined as sisters. I've always had this romantic notion of finding the women (and families) who have the balls and courage to raise our families together with me, not in stingy competition while ensuring "the best" (schools, nutrition, exposure to likewise well-mannered children, etc). Thank Jesus I've found some Friends who agree in this (sometimes unspoken) pact - and not coincidentally, those are the same women who view me and my children as part of their families, rather than another competitor at the carcass.

This morning I fix my husband with a steely glare and ask him why, oh why in the almost four years we've been parents, has he never arranged childcare so he and I could have a date? Or perhaps I'm wrong. Maybe I'm forgetting a time or two that he has. I can't think of any right now, but! After a beat he mentions acquiring Rachel, his coworker's teenage daughter, for one evening a few months ago.

"Anything else?" I ask, genuinely curious.

Silence.

"... Nothing's coming down the e-pipe," He finally says. His eyes dart all over the room.

I'm thinking of Valentine's Day and, more specifically, a group of seven women I met at the spa this Saturday. Their husbands met in quasi-stealth over a period of weeks pervious and arranged not just an all-day spa event but also a limo and trip to a fancy restaurant for a group date. And who knows what else! This story was going around the spa and the rest of us ladies were very impressed and, of course, a teensy bit envious. Of course, each and every one of those men can probably expect, if not a good bj that night from a relaxed and (likely) tipsy wife, at least a nicer temprament from their lovely brides for a few days. Tit for tat, so to speak.

My husband would probably (literally) do anything I asked for a date. Like many male partners I know, he'd place the call or drop off the kids or move the carseats ad nauseam. I guess what turned on the women hearing this story at the spa was the fact the dudes took it all on themselves. The ultimate aphrodisiac; a male who acts like the man he used to be (while courting), not another one of our children (sorry - it's harsh, but it's Truth).

I guess don't really have any complaints about my husband. Or at least, the ones I do, I'm not going to air here. I did like seeing him get all weaselly and evasive this morning when I posed my simple question. And I guess for the near future I can continue to expect to take any self-pampering - or any dates with The Man - into my own hands.

That's me, finally breathing fresh air. I emerge from my month of back-n-forthing my three family members with their various bouts of illness. The family is on the mend. Thank God. I went to a Mama's Group this morning - without children, as one was in school and one home sick - and experienced my normal social life again briefly. It was really loud and tantrum-y (the kids, not the Mamas). One kid threw a huge toy across the room and nailed another (much smaller) kid. It was like Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome in there. I guess I had forgotten about the intensity of our group get-togethers, and in retrospect a mellow couple weeks at home wasn't all a bad thing.

Sweet Jesus, thank You so much that my kids are through suffering. Nels had a little harder time - although an even shorter one - than Sophie. I now know a child in diapers and a child toilet trained are entirely different creatures when it comes to the Pox. Sophie had no troublesome issues in her nether regions but poor Nels' bum really suffered - fortunately it's looking better today. The day before yesterday he employed a short-sighted but understandable strategem and avoided pooping. It worked pretty well for a while and got him through the most tender period of time, bum-wise, before he finally delivered one day later. Me boy's a smart one, he is.

In other news, tomorrow is my birthday. Life has been half fucked-up and so my 29th is not going to be the week long bender / spoiling oneself affair I'd hoped. If you'd like to help, all birthday hoopla can be mailed to:

1324 14th Street
Port Townsend, WA 98368

Alternatively, you can email me a "Hey, sorry I missed your birthday!" [insert farty foghorn noise here] email to:

kelly AT hogaboom DOT org

And here, posted far too late for anyone to do anything about it in a timely fashion, but maybe in time to make you feel guilty if you didn't get me anything (Billy, that's you), here is my partial wishlist of desireables:

* OPI (they're all good, but of course I have my favorite). Thanks, Sarah!

* black licorice, with or without salt. Again, Sarah rocks!

* a new blog design by brummel so I don't have such a candy-ass'd template.

* Subscription to Ottobre magazine so I can make cute Euro-clothes for my fat, spoiled Aryan children.

* fabric yardage: silk, wool.

* Sample pack from Dharma trading co. (77 fabrics). Birlo, keeping it real.

* sewing machine needles in quantity.

* apron (I prefer a full apron, not a half). I spend half my day wearing one.

* corkboard, preferably large, for my sewing room. Yes, I'm a dork. Yes, it will make me very happy to have one.

* A swiss army knife. Why in the hell does everyone in the world have one but me? Every year my family falls all over itself to buy one for everyone else. I just want a little sexy-ish one I can keep on my keychair or in my pocket. Please, don't get me one with the USB stick. I find that very funny.

* iTunes gift cert always works for me.

* coffee-related love of any sort (bypass Folgers crystals).

* sexy / slutty bras (38 DD). A gift of this caliber qualifies you for a free flash you can redeem yourself or transfer to another should you feel so inclined.

* Mario Badescu cosmetics (cleansing milk, egg shampoo, and the seaweed cleanser)

* for the big spenders: a sale sweater by Anthropologie (the occidental sweater jacket, marled sweater jacket, and tree-trimming cardigan are my favorites). XLg for the boobies.

Speaking of boobies, apparently my husband has been teaching Nels some lovely manners. Five minutes ago - just before The Boy's nap - I am holding him in arms and he spots my insulated cup, "Coffee?" he inquires (yes, he knows what it is, and he likes it). "No Nels. Maybe after your nap," I admonish him. He sticks his hand down my v-neck. "Nels, what are you doing?" I ask. "Boobs," he gruffly intonates.

Nice.

I am sitting at my computer feeling shellshocked yet intact. A meatloaf and two kinds of rice simmer in the kitchen; my husband and son snuggle on the couch. My mother is bathing my daughter. It is quiet, briefly. All I want is to be told I can stop working, stop worrying about the laundry, stop feeling like a jerk for having a needy family.

Ralph seems to be on the mend. What a brief, if staggered, stint these illnesses have been! If it wasn't for the worry I have been plagued with, I could say it was No Big Deal. But, too bad - I Worried. I still worry. I am going to need to go through some sort of PTSD detox (or perhaps getting "toxed" is what I do need) when this is over.

Why, Lord, could it not have been me that got sick? Strike that; I don't really mean it. Please Lord, don't let me get sick - for a while at least. Let me just do some ass-kissing and say Thank You that no one got sicker than they did and Thank You for my friends and Thanks Especially for my own Mama taking care of me. We are blessed, we are. But a tiny voice inside me asks why couldn't it be me who lolled on the couch playing Freelancer, ate fistfuls of noodles, or shit my pants (Sophie, Nels, and Ralph, not necessarily in that order) without worry of reprisal or chores or financial obligartions or dietary needs?

The thing is, when it's me that's sick and needy I feel even more guilty. Maybe when everyone's better and everyone's spots are cleared up I can go on some sort of five-day house party bender (I happen to know a little lady who'll be freed up for five days come March, [wink!] [wink!]) and my family can clean the bodily fluids off me for a change. No, wait, that's just gross.

Guess I'll try some Dignity instead. Borrrring.

Months ago I was doing some extensive research on blogging (comprised of typing "blog" into Wikipedia before becoming bored after five minutes then moving on to Google Anchorman desktops) and I came up with the phrase "dark blog": meaning, a blog that isn't available to the public at large. My own writings sometimes occasionally resemble a "dark blog" in an entirely different way and I fear I have been skirting on one of those episodes.

My life seems to have improved in the last eighteen hours or so since Ralph did not in fact die or have his head swell up overnight or hack up a wet lung. And before 9:30 AM this morning I have had four friends come to my aid, or at least explicitly offer to do so. One brings me a mocha and another friend calls to tell me she'd like to bring dinner tonight and another offers to do a grocery store run (or any other kind of run) and still another walks my daughter to school. Thank you, thank you! I feel myself breathing again. We will survive.

Nels' pox are still almost microscopic but I have a seasoned eye and I know it's coming. Ralph vacillates between almost resembling himself, personality-wise - hampered only by a gross, plague-ridden appearance - and then suddenly becoming too fatigued to do anything but couch time for hours on end. My mom is slated to arrive this afternoon. Thank. God. Will I in fact have a luxurious, all-about-me birthday on Saturday? I don't know. Even if the Gentlemen are indeed well, it doesn't seem entirely right to leave them to their own devices for an entire morning and afternoon. Then again, you only turn 29 once. And what a non-occasion it is, unless you take the time to go to the spa and get some all-girls lunch and go shopping or whatever the fuck sexist yet satisfying stuff you want to do.

At 7 PM my husband, stir-crazy, volunteers the lot of us for a night drive. My kids are in their pj's, having enjoyed an early bath this evening. My daughter is babbling about "taking only three things with me to help me feel better." Fine, fine - hustle. Everyone loaded up. Ralph, kids, all tucked into blankets; me at the wheel. We drive out to North Beach and then over to Fort Worden to look at the moon and the clouds and the ferry shimmering by on the water. Music is on and everyone's warm and bright-eyed.

I leave my sleeping girlchild and Pox-y husband and to-be-Poxed son in the van and duck into the local video store. I find a copy of The Corpse Bride for Ralph and the kids to watch tomorrow; I make good on my voucher for a three-day rental of Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind. The boy at the counter and I talk a bit; I am just glad to have five minutes out of the home with no one hanging off me or hacking around me.

We get home and my blanketed sick boys trudge in the house. I edge into the van and gently unbuckle my sleeping daughter. She still clutches in her hands the three toys she took with her to help her feel better: a wooden helicopter, a sparkly soft purple fuzzy ball, and an antique hankie Abbi gave her years ago.

I pick up the phone to call a friend and ask her for a favor tomorrow. I will myself I won't cry. Nevermind that she will probably get wind of this entry and find out I was trying not to cry when I talked to her; fuck it, I am just trying to avoid the embarrassing voice-crack that I know I can get when I'm trying to hold it together.

My husband is pretty ill. He grows worse by the hour. He is not so bad off, not yet, but there is no way of knowing how much worse he will get. I haven't had to worry about someone in my family being seriously ill in a while; I forgot how draining it is on me. Some people thrive and kick ass. I can do it all, but at some point I give into worry and although I walk about doing my thing inside I am a mess, my stomach writhing on itself and forgetting to eat for hours and hours. With Ralph, as with my children, I am also in the position of showing competence and calm and only crying in the kitchen where they can't see me; holding it together (I am aware my husband can and will read this entry and discover the extent of my worry but when he gets out of being a big floppy puffy-faced dodgy old cripple and can focus his eyes on my blog I will be simply relieved). All of this worry while I do twice as many chores and more laundry and baths for all of them and drive down to get a check from his work and deposit it and take rent to the landlord and give the landlord our list of house repair items and have to discuss every single one of them and head to the pharmacy where the nurse forgot to call in the meds and make a cell call and get her to get the meds to the pharmacist and pack up everything and pick up dinner and head home to cook it and worry about my son who will be sick soon too. Thank Sweet Jesus the child I had with me is as easy as pie and comes home and lays a cool cloth on her Daddy's head and strokes him and says, "I'm worried about you Daddy" and he starts to cry.

Almost worse than my stressful job of nursemaid is my anger. Anger that was a tiny ember in my chest that would have fizzled out had I only one illness to deal with and the time to recover (instead of three back-to-back stints - and hopefully I myself will not grow ill); anger that would have dissipated and left me clearheadedly assessing those few fickle personalities around me and finding them, if a bit lacking, if a bit insensitive and territorial, earnestly doing their best. Frightened and helpless and watching my mate suffer, my heart hardens and turns away from a few I cannot rely on and I seek those I can.

Perhaps this sad, fierce kernel of anger is only a stymied reaction to my fear, perhaps it will mellow; in any case, by vast majority my family and friends have come to my aid in the ways I have hoped. This evening I am holding the phone and my girlfriend agrees to help me and I feel relief edge into my skin. I call my mother. My husband is ill. I ask her to come help me. A bald request; I know I am disrupting her life. This will be my birthday present; that she will come help me take care of my family. "I have no one else to help me," I say, and I don't mean no one to bring meals or talk to or to babysit my children but I mean no one else to allow me to worry and be here to hold and stroke my children and have nothing else to do but care for my loved ones. Even as I seek her out I know what is really happening is the deep existential fear of loss and solitude and in any case, my mother can't help me with that more than anyone else. But she is one of the strongest women I know and I also know she loves me more than anything else and I want her by my side.

It's one of those goofy Mama things where everytime you snuggle in bed with your toddler your hand slips down to pinch their little booty for the dual purpose of checking to see if they're wet or dry and also to get a surreptitious caress in. My daughter rarely has an accident at night anymore, but old habits die hard. In this case, she had wet the bed - luckily we have a waterproof pad down so it's no biggie and when I whispered, "Sophie!" her little voice said, "What?" in a very sharp, very aware, I-sort-of-knew-I-was-soaking-in-pee type of way.

What I probably should have mentioned in the first place is that my husband has contracted the chicken pox and the reason I woke at all was that he was running the hottest bath he could in the middle of the night, being that he was going through some intense fever / chills. He's very cute, asking about the temperature in the way a newly-blind man might ask a friend to describe a pretty flower. "Is it hot in here?" "What do you think of the temperature in here, does it feel cold to you or normal?" I think he's amazed that his body is tricking him and no one else. Besides the tell-tale blisters which are coming out in force today, he's not getting too much more trouble - mostly I'm just encouraging him to rest. Chicken pox is a sort of rite of passage for parents, but one thing I have learned about it in the last few weeks (the disease has been running through our community here and there since the fall) is that a vocal minority (fortunately) of people can be - how should I put this? - full of convicted ignorance when it comes to the pox. Incorrect, scary, or sloppy "knowledge" (for instance Ralph is going to contract pneumonia and die since he's battling the virus as an adult). Another case in point my mother-in-law assured us Ralph had chicken pox not once, but twice in childhood so, you know, he wouldn't get it from his own child. I really could go on about the alarmist or incorrect or silly stuff that I've seen regarding this particular flu-level yet icky-looking malady but I won't, because I'm busy cooking and cleaning and laundering and loving up my family. Oh yeah, and blogging and stealing a smoke now and then - Mama's gotta stay happy.

Well, it turns out at 4 AM an ill husband and a daughter who's wet really require the same thing - a warm bath. They soaked in the tub together while I stripped and remade the bed and laid out warm clothes. Ralph returned to his bed on the couch with yet another (dry) blanket to supplant the ones he slept and sweated in. As late as last night he was saying, "Well, we'll see how I look tomorrow." while I'm thinking, "Pox-y as hell, mothafucka!" but keeping mum. I am on major laundry detail and running any and all errands with my now healthy daughter who feels sort of proud, I think, that she brought her Daddy low with the Pox. This morning our son shows just a tiny bit of nose snuffle and little innocuous spots and I know he's in for it too, which is one day earlier than I thought we'd be seeing it (yes, I can do chicken pox math). Further awesomeness would include me coming down with it as well; only time will tell but I seem to have survived recent exposures unscathed and we can only hope for the best.

In the meantime I'm considering wrapping our entire family in cloth bandages and sunglasses and fedora ala The Invisible Man and limping down the street en masse, "Unclean! Unclean!"

I don't get this whole Superbowl thing. I guess our state's pro team is competing today and I hear they have been fairly sucky for decades, so it's some big deal they've got a shot. But I don't understand why in the world people who don't follow or know much about football suddenly suspend their life and spend all day watching it and all the exhausting hoopla that accompanies it. I guess it helps justify an all-day party; at least that I can understand. And heck, there's always the chance we might see some illicit partial nudity again (although I hear the Stones are playing the halftime show and I'm not sure I need to see Mick Jagger's man-tits anytime in my life, no offense to Mick whom I love).

Superbowl Sunday is nice break for those who don't participate (in our case out of apathy, not any intentional statement), because everyone stays home and the world at large is relatively mellow. Today we hit the road to head to Sequim's amazing public pool. My kids are no longer, if they ever were, fragile creatures to handle carefully in the water. Of course like all Mamas I do have that Totally Silly Overblown Fear for my children; mine is that they might drown or be swept away in the water. Funny I should also enjoy swimming and have lived on the West Coast my entire life. Or maybe that's why I have that particular fear. Today I watched as my kids climbed in and out of the water, supremely confident. Nels in a pair of jean shorts that Sophie was wearing only months ago; Sophie in a too-tight Walmart bright orange sequined suit her Grazdma bought her. My husband is in shorts he keeps adjusting so as not to give an unintentional eyeful to any of the little kids who spend their whole time underwater in googles.

I am fascinated by body-watching at the pool. You see people in their skins in a way that seems so essential. A man strides out of the dry sauna, so tall and large as to be almost startling, his beautiful ruddy brown skin taut across his protruding yet powerful belly. A swarthy rail-thin grandsire sitting with legs dangling in the hydro pool and holding his preteen grandson as familiarly as a pet, stroking the boy's hair with a wonderful tenderness. An adolescent girl with translucent, perfectly pale skin and three rings in her face and long gleaming limbs folded around a horridly cramped body posture that hates itself. In the showers, a stylishly slender woman of fortysomething, bent over helping her son rinse off, the two cheeks of her backside collapsed and swaying as gently as large palm leaves. Women corpulent, fat; women whose abdomens and thighs have fold upon fold and ripples in every crease. A woman near seventy with thighs barelled and scarred and pocked, but the smoothest, palest breasts and tiny fresh pink nipples younger-looking than my own.

My daughter is confident, stripping her suit and putting her clothes on and tugging her seal-wet ponytail and bundling up her towel. She tells me, "That was a pretty good time at the pool!" and marches ahead to wait in the lobby. For lunch we head to our favorite coffee shop in town and the kids eat their veggie sandwiches on dark bread that their Daddy packed; pretzels, hot steamed milk. A small cup of cranberry walnut ice cream. Ralph and I talk in the drive home and watch the children droop further and further into sleep; their skin shiny and clean and filled with a satisfied exhaustion.

I didn't make it to King Kong today - but I did see Kiss Kiss Bang Bang with Cyn.


And don't tell me you don't just love it. The best time I've had at a movie in a long, long time.

Revelation #5 in my up-and-coming bestselling book on "How To Get Through Raising Kids Without Feeling Like You're Being Kicked In The Nuts":

Getting up early and having some time to yourself changes your life.

Of course when you have young ones, for a few years it happens that "getting up before the kids" would consist of rather drastic measures (say, a 4 AM rising in order to get a shower in and sip a cup of coffee before the littlest one fusses and your stomach sinks into your shoes). During these years it helps to try to remember kids eventually learn, like we adults well know, to keep one's ass in bed as long as possible, whenever possible. Some mornings my preschooler sleeps in with such hedonistic glee as to be almost embarrassing. For instance yesterday I crawled into bed with her at 8:30 (school starts at 9 and we are not going to be late) and stroked her, whispered lovely stories about schoolmates to her, squeezed her bum, waved a peanut butter sandwich under her nose, and in every way tried to coax her into a gentle wakeup. She pulled her nasty, slobbery thumb out of her mouth long enough to mumble, "I love this," before rolling to her side and scooting her pointed bottom closer against me to spoon.

But I digress. This morning for the first time my walking group (today, all 2 of us) did not walk out of fear of the storm outside but instead sat in the coffee shop chatting for 48 minutes. When I got home the house was still sleeping. The quiet was delicious. I "puttered about" (yes, I used that phrase in my mind as I did it) doing laundry, tidying the sewing room and washing diapers, until finally, one by one, each member of the family came stumbling out of repose and most of them headed straight into my arms. My children were tousle-haired and smiling as if the sight of Mama was exactly their favorite way to wake up (it probably is). Thrilled with the somewhat unorthodox breakfast meal I threw together of roasted glazed garbanzo beans (seriously, they're good) and peanut butter sandwiches (Ralph's the one who makes a proper breakfast), my oldest regaled us with all the ways her meal in fact was composed of dinosaur food. Both kids smiled at my husband and I and pet us both and begged us to sing them songs from their current favorite album (Death Cab For Cutie's "Transatlanticism"), including the "dum dum dum-dum" strummings of the guitar in the intro of "Title and Registration".

I have a lovely family.

This afternoon, in another one of those weird moments where in one second you think something totally goofy is going on, and in another second you realize you had a misunderstanding and really an entirely other goofy thing is happening, I called my mom and after about ten minutes of conversation she airily said,

"Oh! I have a message for you. This guy called for my rack and wants you to email him."

Silence on my end. (What the fuck did she just say?)

I feel oddly guilty, as if whatever is happening involves some sort of harassment, brokered by me, on my unawares church-going Mama who was just trying to mind her own business. Have I said anything about her boobs lately? I think, vacantly. But her tone is just too convivial to harbor any annoyance. I am momentarily paralyzed.

She repeats herself, "He called from Iraq, he's in the Army. He wants you to email him. He left me his address - let me go get it."

I'm over the first weirdness and into a second bout of surrealism. First I think, well whoever this guy is I can't say no to that. A fucking soldier over there, of course I have to email him. Then I'm thinking, Who do I know over there? No one. Who do I know in the military? Is this some guy who's been holding a torch for me for years and I don't even remember him? No, wait. No one holds a torch for me. Wishful thinking. P.S. at my high school reunion this year I was dogged by a man who insisted he was in my class and I should remember him. I didn't. I don't know why my brain has gaping holes in it, but yeah - it does some times.

My mom picks up her phone again and tells me the name. I recognize him as a buddy from my hometown that I got to know better in college. I remind my mom of who he was. I will email him tomorrow. And I will investigate this guilty conscience regarding harassing my mom.

Today one of those great moments happened: I impulsively invited a friend and his daughter over for dinner. I don't normally make enough food to feed an entire second family (being mostly as we are in denial that Nels can eat two steaks and a bucket of coleslaw then demand a quart of milk) but tonight's repast involved lots of beets, meatballs, and baked potatoes - easy. Oddly enough, I make excellent baked potatoes in a very unique method and I get compliments every time I make them. Compliments on my goddamn baked potatoes. Am I too lazy to food blog my secret? Yes, I am. I hate my food blog.

Dinner went great and I was so pleased to see my friend have second and third helpings of my food. What sickness is it in a woman that one of the more gratifying experiences in life is to watch the enjoyment of her cooking - especially the enjoyment by a male? I am not really ashamed to admit it, since you know, I'm publishing it here. But I feel like I should be ashamed.


This is our winter weather in PT. A little wind, a tiny bit of damp. The look of suspicion is so Sophie. Maybe she's wondering where the hell her hands went.

This year for my birthday (the 11th of this month), I am anticipating another fabulous knitted item from my friend Abbi. In the above picture you may spy her gift to me of two years ago, the Toddle scarf from knitty. Last year, it was a pair of cool wool handwarmers in poison green (my favorite color). Later in the season she made Suse a tiny pair to match. It's fucking rad having a driven knitting friend. I myself have been slogging away at a mysterious item I will only refer to as the "Resentment Scarf" and lucky is the woman on the receiving end, as I thrust a clumsily-wrapped Hate Package into her hands and run off crying tears of rage and frustration. I will finish the thing, though. So Help Me God.