Husband and I had a date last night, and we were walking to a restaurant near the beach when a gaggle of drunk young women spilled out of a poolside bar into the parking lot.
One of them yelled, “Hey, look at this!” and she pulled down her white bikini bottom and lifted up her beach cover-up. She had a substantial white dimply ass with some sort of tattoo.
This went on. She walked across the parking lot -- waddled, really, since her bathing suit bottoms were around her knees - sipping a drink and wiggling her bare butt, which wiggled quite a bit, mooning the block. Her friends were howling. Husband feared the image was burning into his brain.
I have never been into looking at asses under the best of circumstances, with the exception of clean baby butts, which are of course adorable. But other than that, really, I can do without seeing anybody’s rear, including my own. I don’t even want to see the ass of Brad Pitt, though I would probably be fine looking at it if it was wearing tight jeans.
But here I was staring at a particularly unattractive ass on a drunk girl. And there were a dozen thoughts that could have been going through my head, ranging from: “that poor girl, she must have been drinking on an empty stomach,” to “Quick, honey, call the police.”
This is what I actually thought: I’m so old.
We all know the traditional ways to recognize the onset of middle age, and frankly, though occasionally disarming, they’ve not been terribly upsetting. The Diva likes to ask me to raise my eyebrows so she can run her fingers over my forehead furrows. She thinks that’s hilarious. I have a few gray hairs, but nobody notices because I yank out the noticeable ones. And I have the normal aches and pains, but really I’m healthier than I’ve ever been, and in better shape, too. I sort of have to be, since I am 45 years old and have a 2-year-old. How am I going to hold her down in time out if I haven’t adequately built up my triceps?
No, the real surprise has been watching myself get old in my thoughts, in my perspective on things like drunk girls taking off their pants in parking lots, or my attitude toward modern teenagers. At least four times a day I find myself thinking, KIDS THESE DAYS! and then thinking, I’m turning into a cranky old shrew.
At the Diva’s day camp, for example, one of her teeny-bopper camp counselors mouthed off to me the other day while I was trying to console the Diva regarding her confusion about how to get in line to climb the rock wall.
“Uh, I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” he said, irritated, with hands up, palms facing me, like he wanted to push me out of the authoritative orbit he envisioned around him.
I had just come from my boxing class. I wore my all-black workout gear and my bandana doo-rag, and it took all my willpower not to push out my chest and say, “You talkin’ to ME?” I did manage to wag my finger at him, though, menacingly enough that he took a step back.
And I walked away thinking KIDS THESE DAYS!
In my defense, though this probably sounds like more evidence of my shew-like aging process, I do believe modern parents have been way too focused on fostering self-esteem in their children without teaching them basic manners, how to tie their shoes, and the importance of society’s hierarchy - as in, let old people have your seat and don’t talk to almost-old people as though they were stupid.
On the bright side, I have more patience, and didn’t summon the manager at the grocery store yesterday when the bag boy said, “Jeez, what do you give those kids to eat, pure sugar?”
I just rolled my eyes at him and said, “This is what kids are like. Consider it birth control.” And in my head I added, “....in the off chance that anybody wants to have sex with a skinny little doofus twerp like you.” But I kept that to myself, of course. Which is one of the things I’ve learned to do in my 4.5 decades on the planet.
Similarly, I did not shout something obscene at the bottomless drunk girl careening around the parking lot last night. Husband and I simultaneously made the “tsk, tsk” sound and ushered each other forward like an old married couple. The only thing missing was a hand-knit shawl around my shoulders to protect me from the night air.
I must tell you, however, that after the incident made me feel old, it made me think about drinking, and embarrassing myself when drinking, and the fact that it’s high time I came clean about that. Stay tuned.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
Why do I blog? Do you care? Thanks! I knew it.
“Do you work?” the woman asked me.
“Yeah,” I said. “I work in the laundry room.”
She gave me her best patronizing smile, and clarified her question. “Do you have a job?”
Feeling generous, I threw her a slow-moving softball. “I’m a writer.”
“Really? What do you write?”
Zing! Outta the park!
I wanted to put my arm around her shoulder and whisper conspiratorially. “Listen,” I’d say, “here’s the deal. I do manual labor all day, except when I’m watching “The View.” Mostly I write checks, but now I write a blog, along with 12 million other people, and the .00007 percent of the U.S. population that reads my blog seems to like it. (Yes, I worked out that figure, though my math is undoubtedly faulty.)
Everybody seems pretty tired of hearing about how hard full-time mothers work. I’m a little sick of it myself. Frankly, I feel very fortunate that Visa, American Express and my Husband have all collaborated to make it possible for me to stay home with my children. Of course it’s hard work, even physically demanding at times. Just yesterday I had to throw the Pterodactyl over my right shoulder to drag him out of summer camp while holding the Tyrant with my left hand, which quickly went numb.
More taxing, though - at least for me - is coming to terms with who I am, redefined. I once won national awards for my writing, held the title of university professor, and helped launch a community-wide service organization that continues today.
Yesterday’s big accomplishments included pulling the rest of a coloring book out of my dog’s butt, stealing a 15-minute nap, and taking the Tums away from the 2-year-old before she ate more than one.
When I graduated from college, my dear friend Kay and I said tear-filled goodbyes on the steps of our dorm. “I’ll vote for you when you’re running to be the first woman president,” I sobbed.
“You go find your Arabian prince,” she sobbed back.
See, her dreams were a little loftier than mine. Kay has achieved something close to her goals. She’s not The President, but she’s a president - of a public relations firm. She constantly emails me from exotic locations. She travels the world doing glamorous things and looking fabulous.
I did marry a prince - a metaphorical one, and he doesn’t have a kingdom, and he’s not Arabian, though he has a nice olive complexion. But what I really wanted, even then, was to be a writer, the type of writer whose words rested on the tips of everyone’s tongues, who appeared on “Fresh Air with Terry Gross” and caused traffic jams at book readings.
Well, I’m not that kind of writer, at least not yet. But I am the kind of writer I should be - the kind who simply has to put words together in order to feel complete. Telling people I blog, I must tell you, is a little embarrassing at times, much like it’s embarrassing to tell people you’re a writer. For me, it’s tantamount to saying you’re unemployed.
But I’m moving past that perception because it just feels so good to do this. I love being a mom, except for the parts involving cleaning toilets, chopping raw chicken, little boys peeing in the flower garden in front of the preschool, poop in public pools, siblings hitting each other, and head lice.
And I love being a writer, except for the parts involving people asking me about being a writer. In other words, I know I have a pretty good life, having two jobs, both of which actually cost me money.
Husband once told me that I didn’t have to be extraordinary. Then he amended his statement before I jumped all over him for it. “What I mean is, some of the most ordinary people live the most extraordinary lives.”
I like that. So that’s what I’m aiming for. Nonetheless, the next person who asks me what I do will get no ammunition.
“I’m unemployed,” I’ll say. And reasonably proud of it.
“Yeah,” I said. “I work in the laundry room.”
She gave me her best patronizing smile, and clarified her question. “Do you have a job?”
Feeling generous, I threw her a slow-moving softball. “I’m a writer.”
“Really? What do you write?”
Zing! Outta the park!
I wanted to put my arm around her shoulder and whisper conspiratorially. “Listen,” I’d say, “here’s the deal. I do manual labor all day, except when I’m watching “The View.” Mostly I write checks, but now I write a blog, along with 12 million other people, and the .00007 percent of the U.S. population that reads my blog seems to like it. (Yes, I worked out that figure, though my math is undoubtedly faulty.)
Everybody seems pretty tired of hearing about how hard full-time mothers work. I’m a little sick of it myself. Frankly, I feel very fortunate that Visa, American Express and my Husband have all collaborated to make it possible for me to stay home with my children. Of course it’s hard work, even physically demanding at times. Just yesterday I had to throw the Pterodactyl over my right shoulder to drag him out of summer camp while holding the Tyrant with my left hand, which quickly went numb.
More taxing, though - at least for me - is coming to terms with who I am, redefined. I once won national awards for my writing, held the title of university professor, and helped launch a community-wide service organization that continues today.
Yesterday’s big accomplishments included pulling the rest of a coloring book out of my dog’s butt, stealing a 15-minute nap, and taking the Tums away from the 2-year-old before she ate more than one.
When I graduated from college, my dear friend Kay and I said tear-filled goodbyes on the steps of our dorm. “I’ll vote for you when you’re running to be the first woman president,” I sobbed.
“You go find your Arabian prince,” she sobbed back.
See, her dreams were a little loftier than mine. Kay has achieved something close to her goals. She’s not The President, but she’s a president - of a public relations firm. She constantly emails me from exotic locations. She travels the world doing glamorous things and looking fabulous.
I did marry a prince - a metaphorical one, and he doesn’t have a kingdom, and he’s not Arabian, though he has a nice olive complexion. But what I really wanted, even then, was to be a writer, the type of writer whose words rested on the tips of everyone’s tongues, who appeared on “Fresh Air with Terry Gross” and caused traffic jams at book readings.
Well, I’m not that kind of writer, at least not yet. But I am the kind of writer I should be - the kind who simply has to put words together in order to feel complete. Telling people I blog, I must tell you, is a little embarrassing at times, much like it’s embarrassing to tell people you’re a writer. For me, it’s tantamount to saying you’re unemployed.
But I’m moving past that perception because it just feels so good to do this. I love being a mom, except for the parts involving cleaning toilets, chopping raw chicken, little boys peeing in the flower garden in front of the preschool, poop in public pools, siblings hitting each other, and head lice.
And I love being a writer, except for the parts involving people asking me about being a writer. In other words, I know I have a pretty good life, having two jobs, both of which actually cost me money.
Husband once told me that I didn’t have to be extraordinary. Then he amended his statement before I jumped all over him for it. “What I mean is, some of the most ordinary people live the most extraordinary lives.”
I like that. So that’s what I’m aiming for. Nonetheless, the next person who asks me what I do will get no ammunition.
“I’m unemployed,” I’ll say. And reasonably proud of it.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Not without my daughter - and another chicken taco
Two years ago this month, I was living in an apartment in a nice section of Guatemala City.
It was a cute little spot, not far from the main avenida, with several little restaurants and shopping areas nearby. It was very safe. It was extra safe, in fact, because the International Olympic Committee was holding its annual meeting a block away to decide the venues for upcoming Winter Olympic games, and there were soldiers with machine guns on every corner. So it was very safe in a terrifying sort of way.
My infant daughter and I had just been released from a Guatemalan hospital, where she had been treated for viral pneumonia, a staph infection in a weeping wound on the back of her head, thrush in her mouth, dehydration, malnourishment and chronic diarrhea. She wasn’t really an infant anymore -- she was 9 months old -- but she weighed just 11 pounds and she didn’t smile, so she was very babyish. I slept in the bed with her every night because she wouldn’t let go of my hand, and I learned how to say, “Can you check this I.V.?” in Spanish. The coffee was excellent.
My Guatemalan attorney - let’s call her Idi Amin - told me to just go home and let her handle everything, but Husband and I decided that this skinny little unsmiling urchin simply needed us. Plus, the doctor said she would die if she went back to the orphanage.
We rented the apartment so that we could take care of her while we waited for the paperwork to clear. Husband stayed home in the U.S. to take care of the other two children, though he came down once so I could fly back to see them.
On pleasant afternoons, I’d stroll the baby -- she wasn’t yet the Tyrant - down to the Taco Tico for lunch, where I’d chat with Mario the manager and order the chicken tacos. During one particularly surreal dining moment, I sipped my El Presidente beer, ate my tacos and listened to “Escape (The Pina Colada Song)” on the stereo system. Mario knew the words.
It would have been a nice little life, had I not been 2,000 miles away from my family and desperately fearful of Idi Amin coming to steal my child. Also, the machine guns kept me slightly on edge.
Though the baby slept a lot, I was very busy keeping all her medications organized, at least at first. After she got better, I stayed busy getting to know her. We watched “Good Morning, America” every day together. Actually, we watched it about 12 times a day, because that’s how often The American Network played it.
One day, Idi Amin called to say that she was going to visit the judge who had the power to sign my paperwork and let us go home. I don’t like to hate people, but if Idi Amin was in a room with me, I would feel perfectly comfortable chopping off her arms. But at the time, she had legal custody of my daughter, and I had to constantly reassure her that she was indeed the most brilliant, compassionate, powerful woman to ever walk the planet.
After she called, while the baby napped, I got on my knees and began to pray. I had not prayed in a long time, and I was not convinced that it would do any good, but it was all I had. Next door to my apartment a political rally was being held, so the background to my fervent pleas to God was a lot of fervent Spanish chanting.
I cried until I began to heave, and heaved until I choked. I knew we would never leave this child, but I couldn’t fathom how we could make this work.
The judge did not sign my paperwork that day, nor that week, nor the next. She didn’t sign it for four more months, in fact. By that time, I had returned home and left the baby with a family I’d met through friends of friends. She was far outside of the city, away from the hands of Idi Amin, and I returned to Guatemala to check on her every three weeks.
The baby was 13 months old when she came home to us for good, and ruined the Pterodactyl’s life. But that’s another story entirely.
It was a cute little spot, not far from the main avenida, with several little restaurants and shopping areas nearby. It was very safe. It was extra safe, in fact, because the International Olympic Committee was holding its annual meeting a block away to decide the venues for upcoming Winter Olympic games, and there were soldiers with machine guns on every corner. So it was very safe in a terrifying sort of way.
My infant daughter and I had just been released from a Guatemalan hospital, where she had been treated for viral pneumonia, a staph infection in a weeping wound on the back of her head, thrush in her mouth, dehydration, malnourishment and chronic diarrhea. She wasn’t really an infant anymore -- she was 9 months old -- but she weighed just 11 pounds and she didn’t smile, so she was very babyish. I slept in the bed with her every night because she wouldn’t let go of my hand, and I learned how to say, “Can you check this I.V.?” in Spanish. The coffee was excellent.
My Guatemalan attorney - let’s call her Idi Amin - told me to just go home and let her handle everything, but Husband and I decided that this skinny little unsmiling urchin simply needed us. Plus, the doctor said she would die if she went back to the orphanage.
We rented the apartment so that we could take care of her while we waited for the paperwork to clear. Husband stayed home in the U.S. to take care of the other two children, though he came down once so I could fly back to see them.
On pleasant afternoons, I’d stroll the baby -- she wasn’t yet the Tyrant - down to the Taco Tico for lunch, where I’d chat with Mario the manager and order the chicken tacos. During one particularly surreal dining moment, I sipped my El Presidente beer, ate my tacos and listened to “Escape (The Pina Colada Song)” on the stereo system. Mario knew the words.
It would have been a nice little life, had I not been 2,000 miles away from my family and desperately fearful of Idi Amin coming to steal my child. Also, the machine guns kept me slightly on edge.
Though the baby slept a lot, I was very busy keeping all her medications organized, at least at first. After she got better, I stayed busy getting to know her. We watched “Good Morning, America” every day together. Actually, we watched it about 12 times a day, because that’s how often The American Network played it.
One day, Idi Amin called to say that she was going to visit the judge who had the power to sign my paperwork and let us go home. I don’t like to hate people, but if Idi Amin was in a room with me, I would feel perfectly comfortable chopping off her arms. But at the time, she had legal custody of my daughter, and I had to constantly reassure her that she was indeed the most brilliant, compassionate, powerful woman to ever walk the planet.
After she called, while the baby napped, I got on my knees and began to pray. I had not prayed in a long time, and I was not convinced that it would do any good, but it was all I had. Next door to my apartment a political rally was being held, so the background to my fervent pleas to God was a lot of fervent Spanish chanting.
I cried until I began to heave, and heaved until I choked. I knew we would never leave this child, but I couldn’t fathom how we could make this work.
The judge did not sign my paperwork that day, nor that week, nor the next. She didn’t sign it for four more months, in fact. By that time, I had returned home and left the baby with a family I’d met through friends of friends. She was far outside of the city, away from the hands of Idi Amin, and I returned to Guatemala to check on her every three weeks.
The baby was 13 months old when she came home to us for good, and ruined the Pterodactyl’s life. But that’s another story entirely.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
How do I love thee? More than I like you, sometimes
During the Pterodactyl’s third year, I took him to the pediatrician with some alarming symptoms.
His temper tantrums had come to resemble volcanic explosions, complete with rumbling and the spewing of liquid. He was completely unreasonable and occasionally downright mean (not unlike how he is now, in fact, at age 4).
And his little voice was so raspy, it pained me.
Dr. M examined him from head to toe. “Well,” he said. “He’s hoarse and raspy because he screams so much. And he screams so much because he’s 2.”
So the diagnosis was that my boy had a terrible case of the Screaming Meanies. It’s apparently a chronic condition because he still suffers from it. It doesn’t make me love him any less. But let’s be frank: there are lots of times when I’d rather not be around him.
Having children is a constant battle of contradictions. Your heart expands impossibly, and sometimes feels like it might explode into a millions shards of love. It can be painful. I remember biking over a bridge when the Diva was a baby, and suddenly becoming paralyzed with the fear that the Diva might grow up and fall off that bridge one day.
Yet the love, ever-present, can be tempered by....resentment?....no, let’s call it extreme frustration and exhaustion. Just yesterday, I left the house to walk the dog, and the Tyrant pressed her tiny nose to the living room window and threw me kisses goodbye. She smiled her best smile, and did a little dance and waved at me, never taking her eyes from mine. As I walked the dog, I was struck with the possibility of being hit by a car and never seeing her again, and my love for her felt like it was the blood in my veins, running through my body and nourishing it with life.
Ten minutes later I found her naked, eating lipstick and throwing dollhouse furniture at the Pterodactyl. The blood-love turned to gelatin and I suddenly needed a long solitary nap.
We love our children so much. And there are times when we can’t stand them. It’s the part of motherhood no one tells you about - that your 7-year-old will say “whatever,” when you ask her about her day, that your son will learn to incorporate the words poopy, weener and pee-pee into every lullaby he knows and that your toddler will learn how to climb up on the counter, open the medicine cabinet and help herself to some Tums. Or that while you’re on the phone, the children will decide to play a violent rendition of musical chairs to Lady GaGa’s Poker Face and the baby will beat a lizard to death with a diving stick.
Last night, we took the trolley down the beach, and the Pterodactyl, obsessed with all things that move, was beside himself with excitement. “Look, Mom! I see a lake!” he shouted as we rode past the retention pond behind Target that we pass every single day. His sense of wonder made me weak with adoration. Later that night, at a restaurant, he stole his sister’s crayon, dropped his lemonade on the floor, drew all over the Diva’s picture, and locked everyone out of his room when we got home. Classic Screaming Meanie.
But he’s my Screaming Meanie, and I couldn’t possibly love him more.
His temper tantrums had come to resemble volcanic explosions, complete with rumbling and the spewing of liquid. He was completely unreasonable and occasionally downright mean (not unlike how he is now, in fact, at age 4).
And his little voice was so raspy, it pained me.
Dr. M examined him from head to toe. “Well,” he said. “He’s hoarse and raspy because he screams so much. And he screams so much because he’s 2.”
So the diagnosis was that my boy had a terrible case of the Screaming Meanies. It’s apparently a chronic condition because he still suffers from it. It doesn’t make me love him any less. But let’s be frank: there are lots of times when I’d rather not be around him.
Having children is a constant battle of contradictions. Your heart expands impossibly, and sometimes feels like it might explode into a millions shards of love. It can be painful. I remember biking over a bridge when the Diva was a baby, and suddenly becoming paralyzed with the fear that the Diva might grow up and fall off that bridge one day.
Yet the love, ever-present, can be tempered by....resentment?....no, let’s call it extreme frustration and exhaustion. Just yesterday, I left the house to walk the dog, and the Tyrant pressed her tiny nose to the living room window and threw me kisses goodbye. She smiled her best smile, and did a little dance and waved at me, never taking her eyes from mine. As I walked the dog, I was struck with the possibility of being hit by a car and never seeing her again, and my love for her felt like it was the blood in my veins, running through my body and nourishing it with life.
Ten minutes later I found her naked, eating lipstick and throwing dollhouse furniture at the Pterodactyl. The blood-love turned to gelatin and I suddenly needed a long solitary nap.
We love our children so much. And there are times when we can’t stand them. It’s the part of motherhood no one tells you about - that your 7-year-old will say “whatever,” when you ask her about her day, that your son will learn to incorporate the words poopy, weener and pee-pee into every lullaby he knows and that your toddler will learn how to climb up on the counter, open the medicine cabinet and help herself to some Tums. Or that while you’re on the phone, the children will decide to play a violent rendition of musical chairs to Lady GaGa’s Poker Face and the baby will beat a lizard to death with a diving stick.
Last night, we took the trolley down the beach, and the Pterodactyl, obsessed with all things that move, was beside himself with excitement. “Look, Mom! I see a lake!” he shouted as we rode past the retention pond behind Target that we pass every single day. His sense of wonder made me weak with adoration. Later that night, at a restaurant, he stole his sister’s crayon, dropped his lemonade on the floor, drew all over the Diva’s picture, and locked everyone out of his room when we got home. Classic Screaming Meanie.
But he’s my Screaming Meanie, and I couldn’t possibly love him more.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Why I haven't written, or why I am a bitch
I haven’t written anything in several days. I’m sure the two or three of you keeping track assume I’m occasionally too busy being a domestic goddess to keep up with my blog.
But that’s not it. The truth is that the prescription for my happy pills ran out a week ago, and my primary care physician wouldn’t refill it without an office visit. I like my doctor, but there are a couple of issues. One, since I moved he’s an hour away. And two, he can’t ever see me right away, which means I’m inevitably stuck talking to the P.A., who takes my blood pressure and asks me if I’ve had any suicidal thoughts. Of course, the only ˜†˜¥
¢ ´˜∫∫†∞(I’m leaving those symbols in because the Tyrant just wrote them with her toes)
suicidal thoughts I’ve had are the result of running out of my happy pills, but I just smile politely and say, of course not! He is now my ex-doctor.
Anyway, Prozac is supposed to stay in your system for a while even when you’re not taking it, so perhaps my panicked irritability is psychosomatic. If so, I pronounce myself a mental Goliath, because let me tell you, I make a convincing raving lunatic. Yesterday, Husband took apart the baby crib and built the Tyrant’s big girl bed, took apart the futon and moved it into the guest room, put together the bookcase I’ve been asking him to build for months, vacuumed the house, cleaned the kids’ bathrooms and let me go to the gym from 6-8 p.m., a time also known as the “witching hour.” And you know what I did? I took some time for myself and then berated him for putting the blender in the dishwasher without asking me if I needed it first.
Yes, I am the wife from hell. Or I can be. If I was a man I would have left me a long time ago.
Envision me, right now, raising my hand to be called on and meekly offering, by way of a defense, that I do suffer from a mental illness. Over and over I’ve been diagnosed with depression. What do I have to be depressed out? Well, nothing. That’s why it’s classified as a disease.
Millions of people suffer from mental illnesses far more debilitating than mine. But for me, living with untreated depression is like having a severe head cold that won’t go away. I can function, but it’s really unpleasant, and I’d rather be in bed.
The combination of medication, regular strenuous exercise and a healthy diet keep my little problem manageable, and now that my medicine cabinet has a full bottle of little green pills, I’m much more apt to smile at my children and ignore them when they take every clean sheet out of the linen closet to build a fort. Just this morning, in fact, at 5:15 a.m., I found the Tyrant sitting on the kitchen floor digging through my purse.
It was all just fine. In fact, it gave me something to write about.
Happy day.
But that’s not it. The truth is that the prescription for my happy pills ran out a week ago, and my primary care physician wouldn’t refill it without an office visit. I like my doctor, but there are a couple of issues. One, since I moved he’s an hour away. And two, he can’t ever see me right away, which means I’m inevitably stuck talking to the P.A., who takes my blood pressure and asks me if I’ve had any suicidal thoughts. Of course, the only ˜†˜¥
¢ ´˜∫∫†∞(I’m leaving those symbols in because the Tyrant just wrote them with her toes)
suicidal thoughts I’ve had are the result of running out of my happy pills, but I just smile politely and say, of course not! He is now my ex-doctor.
Anyway, Prozac is supposed to stay in your system for a while even when you’re not taking it, so perhaps my panicked irritability is psychosomatic. If so, I pronounce myself a mental Goliath, because let me tell you, I make a convincing raving lunatic. Yesterday, Husband took apart the baby crib and built the Tyrant’s big girl bed, took apart the futon and moved it into the guest room, put together the bookcase I’ve been asking him to build for months, vacuumed the house, cleaned the kids’ bathrooms and let me go to the gym from 6-8 p.m., a time also known as the “witching hour.” And you know what I did? I took some time for myself and then berated him for putting the blender in the dishwasher without asking me if I needed it first.
Yes, I am the wife from hell. Or I can be. If I was a man I would have left me a long time ago.
Envision me, right now, raising my hand to be called on and meekly offering, by way of a defense, that I do suffer from a mental illness. Over and over I’ve been diagnosed with depression. What do I have to be depressed out? Well, nothing. That’s why it’s classified as a disease.
Millions of people suffer from mental illnesses far more debilitating than mine. But for me, living with untreated depression is like having a severe head cold that won’t go away. I can function, but it’s really unpleasant, and I’d rather be in bed.
The combination of medication, regular strenuous exercise and a healthy diet keep my little problem manageable, and now that my medicine cabinet has a full bottle of little green pills, I’m much more apt to smile at my children and ignore them when they take every clean sheet out of the linen closet to build a fort. Just this morning, in fact, at 5:15 a.m., I found the Tyrant sitting on the kitchen floor digging through my purse.
It was all just fine. In fact, it gave me something to write about.
Happy day.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Don't ask, don't tell. It's gross, okay?
I am a big believer in “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” It makes a lot of sense to me on many levels, none of which have anything to do with gays in the military.
Well, maybe it has a little to do with gays in the military. I believe homosexuals and heterosexuals have the same inalienable rights, including the right to sign up for years of bad food, poverty wages and travel to war-ridden lands.
But I’m not going to ask gays about their sex lives -- and I certainly don’t want them to tell me about it. I’m not, in fact, going to ask anyone about their sex life, and this applies to all public figures (particularly, it seems, governors) suffering from incurable verbal diarrhea. Please pardon the profanity here, but they have got to shut the fuck up. It’s bad enough that they cannot control their equipment. But let’s face it -- they’re hardly alone in that respect.
What makes them so spectacularly unique is their predilection for trying to explain. I was ready to believe Gov. Mark Sanford was misquoted when he said that though his mistress is his “soulmate,” he’s trying to work things out with his wife. Then I heard it with my own ears. Seriously? Is his wife a blow-up doll? Because that’s the only way I can imagine it working at this point.
Then former New York governor (and serial john) Elliott Spitzer weighed in on the Sanford affair. While trying to defend the indefensible, Spitzer pointed out that “at least” he didn’t fall in love with the hooker he was screwing. That seemed a little self-righteous for a man who so recently lost the respect of nearly every person on the planet. Did Harvard not offer any classes on the Basics of Discretion?
So it’s convenient that the Obama administration is scrutinizing “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” I believe it’s high time the phrase be taken out of the military realm and applied to the general population. Do not misconstrue this as a way of excusing indiscretions such as adultery and improperly using taxpayer dollars to be skanky. Gov. Sanford, I am not going to ask you how many times you had sex with your girlfriend from Argentina. Please, in return, don’t tell me.
I know this will be difficult to enforce because, in my experience, men love to share details. I know a few men, in fact, who are perfectly comfortable sharing such intimacies at cocktail parties, baseball games, and in grocery lines -- often with people they barely know . It provides for some hilarity, of course, especially when alcohol is involved. Still, I must say I find it appalling.
I’m not sure I want Husband indicating to anyone that he finds me attractive, much less admit that we’ve ever had sex. And the same goes for the intricacies of our relationship. If he needs to work out some kinks during those rare (okay, frequent) times when I am indisputably unlovable, he can talk to one or two friends who have been approved by me for that purpose. Otherwise, he must keep it to himself. And in the event that things don’t work out between us, after he’s released from the hospital he certainly can’t go on national television and announce to the world that he’s fallen out of love with me, regardless of whether he says it with a twinge of regret.
So today, on the Fourth of July, when Americans worldwide are celebrating our independence and the freedom we have to express ourselves, I’d like to suggest that we also celebrate our freedom to be quiet. Really. C’mon. Just shut the fuck up.
Well, maybe it has a little to do with gays in the military. I believe homosexuals and heterosexuals have the same inalienable rights, including the right to sign up for years of bad food, poverty wages and travel to war-ridden lands.
But I’m not going to ask gays about their sex lives -- and I certainly don’t want them to tell me about it. I’m not, in fact, going to ask anyone about their sex life, and this applies to all public figures (particularly, it seems, governors) suffering from incurable verbal diarrhea. Please pardon the profanity here, but they have got to shut the fuck up. It’s bad enough that they cannot control their equipment. But let’s face it -- they’re hardly alone in that respect.
What makes them so spectacularly unique is their predilection for trying to explain. I was ready to believe Gov. Mark Sanford was misquoted when he said that though his mistress is his “soulmate,” he’s trying to work things out with his wife. Then I heard it with my own ears. Seriously? Is his wife a blow-up doll? Because that’s the only way I can imagine it working at this point.
Then former New York governor (and serial john) Elliott Spitzer weighed in on the Sanford affair. While trying to defend the indefensible, Spitzer pointed out that “at least” he didn’t fall in love with the hooker he was screwing. That seemed a little self-righteous for a man who so recently lost the respect of nearly every person on the planet. Did Harvard not offer any classes on the Basics of Discretion?
So it’s convenient that the Obama administration is scrutinizing “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” I believe it’s high time the phrase be taken out of the military realm and applied to the general population. Do not misconstrue this as a way of excusing indiscretions such as adultery and improperly using taxpayer dollars to be skanky. Gov. Sanford, I am not going to ask you how many times you had sex with your girlfriend from Argentina. Please, in return, don’t tell me.
I know this will be difficult to enforce because, in my experience, men love to share details. I know a few men, in fact, who are perfectly comfortable sharing such intimacies at cocktail parties, baseball games, and in grocery lines -- often with people they barely know . It provides for some hilarity, of course, especially when alcohol is involved. Still, I must say I find it appalling.
I’m not sure I want Husband indicating to anyone that he finds me attractive, much less admit that we’ve ever had sex. And the same goes for the intricacies of our relationship. If he needs to work out some kinks during those rare (okay, frequent) times when I am indisputably unlovable, he can talk to one or two friends who have been approved by me for that purpose. Otherwise, he must keep it to himself. And in the event that things don’t work out between us, after he’s released from the hospital he certainly can’t go on national television and announce to the world that he’s fallen out of love with me, regardless of whether he says it with a twinge of regret.
So today, on the Fourth of July, when Americans worldwide are celebrating our independence and the freedom we have to express ourselves, I’d like to suggest that we also celebrate our freedom to be quiet. Really. C’mon. Just shut the fuck up.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Stay-cation, Part II: the partial suck
The Tyrant slept in until 7 a.m. yesterday morning, and then she entertained herself while I drank coffee and read the paper in bed.
We’ve turned a corner, I thought happily. Every few minutes she would run into my bedroom and check in with me before scurrying off to do her business. I was finishing entire articles and even contemplating world affairs.
On the fifth or sixth check-in, she seemed very excited. She spoke a lot of gibberish, pantomimed doing a shot of something, then ran out. I thought I should investigate.
She somehow had toppled my purse from the kitchen counter, dug through it and found my emergency supply of Benadryl. (I have kept an emergency supply of Benadryl in my purse ever since the Tyrant sat in a fire ant pile last month.)
She managed to twist off the top and take a swig. And boy, was she proud of herself. “I did it! I did it!” she shouted about a thousand times.
Well. I decided I shouldn’t tell Husband about this due to the recent multi-vitamin incident, which really wasn’t my fault because it was SUPPOSED to be a childproof cap, but I told him anyway and he wasn’t happy. It might have set the tone for Stay-cation Day #2.
I really wanted to leave for the zoo by 9 a.m., but Husband’s previously mentioned clean floor fetish got in the way. In addition he was moving super slowly because he had suddenly developed some sort of chest infection, which made me angry.
I consider it one of my most critical faults that I become infuriated when Husband is sick. As soon as he starts with the coughing and achy business, I start my eye-rolling. I am not sure why I’m like this. It’s possibly because he doesn’t seem able to distinguish between being really sick -- I-can’t-get-out-of-bed-sick -- and what I call “man-sick,” which is more like Boy-I-wish-I-felt-a-little-better-sick. So I never know whether to ban the children from his room and cook some homemade soup, make sure the life insurance payments are current, or just smile sympathetically as I leave him with a couple of kids. Really, if he ever develops some serious illness, I may have to kill him.
At any rate, we finally left the house at 10:24 a.m. We stopped at Starbucks. The Tyrant was well-behaved in light of the Benadryl. After getting back on the road, I was in the middle of telling Husband a very important story involving the previous evening’s Pterodactyl meltdown when he spilled some iced latte down the front of his white t-shirt.
It shook him up, possibly because the chest infection was already spreading to his brain. I kept reminding him we were going to the zoo, for pete’s sake, and who would care? But I could tell he wasn’t going to move past it, so I purposely spilled some coffee down the front of my white shirt, too, which made him smile a little bit but really pissed me off. Because I had looked a bit put together for a zoo trip, but now looked like a slovenly matron who’d never heard of bleach.
Now here’s the surprising part: we enjoyed our time at the zoo. The Diva and the Pterodactyl especially appreciated when the gorilla peed right in front of them, and the Tyrant still hasn’t stopped talking about the size of that gorilla’s butt.
I enjoyed it, too. Lovely birds everywhere, beautiful foliage, what’s not to love? Aside from the Benadryl and coffee incidents, I thought it was a decent day.
Today, the chest infection became a member of the family. It waffled between glueing Husband to the bed during Wimbledon and helping him thrust the mop over the immaculate floors, after which it temporarily expanded into something like pneumonia. It is currently watching a Cubs game and considering what to have for dinner, but I expect it to carry Husband to bed very soon, certainly before it’s time to take out the dog.
The big activity for the day was going to the library. The Diva checked out books about Barbie, fairies, Rapunzel and Paula Deen’s home cooking. The Pterodactyl picked books about bridges, airplanes and volcanoes. Right now they’re reading the books to the giant stuffed elephants they bought at the zoo.
The chest infection will accompany Husband to work tomorrow, of course, which leaves me in charge of the final day of Stay-cation. I’m not going to be very ambitious. I’ve learned my lesson. Adventure Landing, the zoo, the library -- all worthy field trips. But the Pterodactyl pointed out in his inimitable way that he and his siblings are not impressed with the glamorous life. At the zoo, I tried to interest him in the number of wood storks nesting in a single tree. “Yeah, great, Mom,” he said. “Blah, blah, blah.”
Tomorrow I think we’ll just go to the pool.
NOTE: Husband just read this and is going to bed grumpy because of it, and wants it pointed out that he watched the kids for 1.5 hours while I got my hair cut today.
We’ve turned a corner, I thought happily. Every few minutes she would run into my bedroom and check in with me before scurrying off to do her business. I was finishing entire articles and even contemplating world affairs.
On the fifth or sixth check-in, she seemed very excited. She spoke a lot of gibberish, pantomimed doing a shot of something, then ran out. I thought I should investigate.
She somehow had toppled my purse from the kitchen counter, dug through it and found my emergency supply of Benadryl. (I have kept an emergency supply of Benadryl in my purse ever since the Tyrant sat in a fire ant pile last month.)
She managed to twist off the top and take a swig. And boy, was she proud of herself. “I did it! I did it!” she shouted about a thousand times.
Well. I decided I shouldn’t tell Husband about this due to the recent multi-vitamin incident, which really wasn’t my fault because it was SUPPOSED to be a childproof cap, but I told him anyway and he wasn’t happy. It might have set the tone for Stay-cation Day #2.
I really wanted to leave for the zoo by 9 a.m., but Husband’s previously mentioned clean floor fetish got in the way. In addition he was moving super slowly because he had suddenly developed some sort of chest infection, which made me angry.
I consider it one of my most critical faults that I become infuriated when Husband is sick. As soon as he starts with the coughing and achy business, I start my eye-rolling. I am not sure why I’m like this. It’s possibly because he doesn’t seem able to distinguish between being really sick -- I-can’t-get-out-of-bed-sick -- and what I call “man-sick,” which is more like Boy-I-wish-I-felt-a-little-better-sick. So I never know whether to ban the children from his room and cook some homemade soup, make sure the life insurance payments are current, or just smile sympathetically as I leave him with a couple of kids. Really, if he ever develops some serious illness, I may have to kill him.
At any rate, we finally left the house at 10:24 a.m. We stopped at Starbucks. The Tyrant was well-behaved in light of the Benadryl. After getting back on the road, I was in the middle of telling Husband a very important story involving the previous evening’s Pterodactyl meltdown when he spilled some iced latte down the front of his white t-shirt.
It shook him up, possibly because the chest infection was already spreading to his brain. I kept reminding him we were going to the zoo, for pete’s sake, and who would care? But I could tell he wasn’t going to move past it, so I purposely spilled some coffee down the front of my white shirt, too, which made him smile a little bit but really pissed me off. Because I had looked a bit put together for a zoo trip, but now looked like a slovenly matron who’d never heard of bleach.
Now here’s the surprising part: we enjoyed our time at the zoo. The Diva and the Pterodactyl especially appreciated when the gorilla peed right in front of them, and the Tyrant still hasn’t stopped talking about the size of that gorilla’s butt.
I enjoyed it, too. Lovely birds everywhere, beautiful foliage, what’s not to love? Aside from the Benadryl and coffee incidents, I thought it was a decent day.
Today, the chest infection became a member of the family. It waffled between glueing Husband to the bed during Wimbledon and helping him thrust the mop over the immaculate floors, after which it temporarily expanded into something like pneumonia. It is currently watching a Cubs game and considering what to have for dinner, but I expect it to carry Husband to bed very soon, certainly before it’s time to take out the dog.
The big activity for the day was going to the library. The Diva checked out books about Barbie, fairies, Rapunzel and Paula Deen’s home cooking. The Pterodactyl picked books about bridges, airplanes and volcanoes. Right now they’re reading the books to the giant stuffed elephants they bought at the zoo.
The chest infection will accompany Husband to work tomorrow, of course, which leaves me in charge of the final day of Stay-cation. I’m not going to be very ambitious. I’ve learned my lesson. Adventure Landing, the zoo, the library -- all worthy field trips. But the Pterodactyl pointed out in his inimitable way that he and his siblings are not impressed with the glamorous life. At the zoo, I tried to interest him in the number of wood storks nesting in a single tree. “Yeah, great, Mom,” he said. “Blah, blah, blah.”
Tomorrow I think we’ll just go to the pool.
NOTE: Husband just read this and is going to bed grumpy because of it, and wants it pointed out that he watched the kids for 1.5 hours while I got my hair cut today.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
