Terrible Mother

Miscellany: The Drama Edition

An IM with Fatally Hip Mrs. Friend Two concerning the break-up of Thing Two* and Cecelia:

Terrible Mother: Thing Two dumped Cecelia yesterday. Because she licked a marshmallow and gave it to Van**.

Fatally Hip Mrs. Friend Two: Dude, you just SLAYED me!

Terrible Mother: I know! It's perfect, right?

Fatally Hip Mrs. Friend Two: I'm laughing so hard right now I seriously considered writing "lol" even though I'm politically and morally opposed to that.

Terrible Mother: And the best thing is he's all adult about it: "I am not old enough to get married yet anyway. We are both way too young. And she should have given the marshmallow to me."

Fatally Hip Mrs. Friend Two: That last sentence just blew Thing Two's cover: "And she should have given that marshmallow to me. That faithless bitch! Toy with my heart, Cecilia! I'll show you who's the real man in this situation!"

Terrible Mother: The story slayed me. I nearly wrecked the car when he piped up with that from the backseat. And plus he was doing that adorable Thing Two-talk*** that he does. I nearly died.

Fatally Hip Mrs. Friend Two: Jesus Christ, that relationship was WAY WAY too old for both of them. They really shared a connection. I mean, it was dramatic and deep enough for 15-year-olds. Licked a marshmallow. I'm dying.

Terrible Mother: I know! It's like some strange mating ritual gone horribly awry or something.

*****

Emails from Stoic Writer which he sent upon finding out about the goings-on with the Nefarious But Adorable Poet:

Email one:

I think there might be a few things to think about. First, reassurance. Second, challenge him. Call him a chickenshit. Tell him that sheltering yourself from the world makes for a pretty miserable life. Third, Chekhov. Make him read that fucking story "Journey by Cart." And explain what it means.

Email two:

One more thing. If there's any writer who rivals the genius of Chekhov, it's Joel. Billy, that is. Play this song for him and tell him to listen closely to the lyrics. Only, replace "man" with "woman."
[Attached: I Am An Innocent Man.mp3]

That whole series of emails made my day. Christ, it made my fucking week. Is there anything better than thinking a relationship can be at all helped by sending someone a Chekhov story****? A Chekhov story along with an old Billy Joel song? Stoic Writer, you kick ass. But sometimes in a weird way. Like the time you chased all three of my children with a teddy bear. Yes. Just like that.

*****

A conversation with Friend One:

Friend One: So, I sent Fly Boy a text message today about being in a bad mood.

Terrible Mother: Oh God.

Friend One: I know, right? It was totally a test and he didn't even know it.

Terrible Mother: What did he do?

Friend One: He texted right back and asked if there was anything he could do. And then he asked if I wanted a cheese sandwich when I got home.

Terrible Mother: That's good, yeah? He passed right?

Friend One: Well, he passed the first part.

Terrible Mother: Oh no.

Friend One: Because if there isn't a surprise for me when I get home I'm going to be angry.

Terrible Mother: You know you're crazy, right?

Friend One: Yeah. But you're the one who puts men through something like the Dating LSAT, at least according to Friend Two.

[silence]

Terrible Mother: Well, you could at least have told him it was a two-part test! That there was the Section B! He doesn't know what he's up against!

Friend One: No, but he will. He will.

*tm

*I sort of hate the way some parents say their elementary-aged son is "dating" someone, which has always seemed to me a hysterical assertion of heterosexuality on par with buying boys camouflaged pants and encouraging them to shoot small animals with BB guns. But Thing Two legitimately entered into something with Cecelia, and that something including holding hands, sharing toys and craft supplies, and kisses (which would have both her parents and me yelling, "Cheeks! Only cheeks!").

**As it turned out, I think I got the story wrong because later Fatally Hip Mrs. Friend Two and I were told that Van licked the marshmallow and gave it to Cecelia who then ate it.

***Thing Two, being mildly autistic, talks in a kind of adorable monotone, brown eyes big and round, and almost completely without contractions (a side effect of spending 5 of your 7 years in speech therapy). It's so him that I can't help but think this story would lose something if another child were telling it.

****note to Omega: there's totally a set-up for a joke here, and I'm giving it to you. It's a gift. Take it, sir. Take it and run.

Miscellany: The Final Atlanta Edition

Favorite phrases from the conference:

“This is not just a mai tai. It’s the Mai Tai of Death!”

“If I have to make witty repartee with another mid-level editor or reader, I’m going to hang myself with one of these stupid t-shirts.”

“Anything said at 1:45 am is not to be trusted. And did I mention to you that we’re in a bar? Yeah, right. Just checking.”

“It’s all a house of cards, TM. A house of cards!”

“I feel strongly that the single mother shtick is going to get old pretty damn fast.”

“Fuck these stupid panels. Right up the ass.”

*****

It’s a long running joke amongst friends that funny things happen to me when I’m in the midst of some emotional upheaval, and the conversation I had at AWP with the poet was no different. Part of the problem was that there was literally nowhere to have a decent conversation either in the Hilton or immediately outside. There were no parks, no close coffee shops, nothing. It was like the anti-Portland*.

As we walked a few blocks from the hotel, I spotted a place with tables and benches outside an office building. We sat and commenced the serious discussion, whereupon I cried, as I am wont to do. And, yeah, I am wont to do**.

We were there maybe an hour total, and somewhere in the midst of it, I noticed a sign behind us that read “Georgia Department of Labor,” which, if you’re among those who know where I work, has a nice symmetry to it. There was also a security guard who walked in and out of my line of sight, but I dismissed that. However, as the poet left me metaphorically bleeding, and I tried to get myself together, I made the mistake of looking up. There, on the second floor of said Department of Labor, was a small group of people, perhaps five or six, noses nearly pressed to the glass, watching intently.

Even in the state I was in, I laughed. Perfect, I thought. This even rivals the balloon midget.***

****

A conversation with Friend One:

Me: I went to this panel today and this poet was on it, but I can’t think of his name.

Friend One: What did he look like?

Me: Well, he sort of had a shrunken head.

Friend One: A shrunken head?

Me: Yeah. Not terribly shrunken, but maybe shrunken like 15% of normal. God, his name is on the tip of my tongue!

Friend One: Okay. What else?

Me: He wore this suit jacket that was too long for his arms, and a little too big for his shoulders. Like it came down to his knuckles.

Friend One (nodding): Okay, that narrows it down some. Anything else?

(long pause)

Me: All of his poems seemed to be about, well…

Friend One: What?

Me: About cock. I think they all said “cock.” It was a little annoying.

Friend One: OH! Is it [Shrunken Monkey Head Cock-Writing Poet]?

Me: YES!

Friend One: Wow. That was not nearly as hard as it should have been.

Me: No. No it wasn’t****.

****

Walking with a friend on the first night of AWP, we ran into a group of other writers, one of whom knew the infamous David Bradley. We chatted, and this writer went on about David's affection for his own member carrying over into a particular panel discussion one long ago AWP. "It was like 'my dick this' and 'my dick that," he said. "I started to think his dick was his novel."

Then I smiled. "Oh no," I said. "It would be a novella."

It's probably horribly self-centered, and a little gauche, to give myself the title of Best One-Liner at AWP, but for that line, I'm doing it. And all you DB naysayers, know I dealt a hefty blow to the man's (cough) little (cough) man.

****

A conversation with Friend M:

Friend M: Why didn’t you put that whole people-staring-out-of-the-building thing in that one entry?

Me: Oh, it stretched the narrative arc of the entry out of whack.

Friend M: What?

Me: It didn’t seem to fit! What was I supposed to do?

Friend M: I dunno. Try not to make your blog entries art?

*tm

*Portland, Oregon has the best downtown of any big city I’ve known. It’s clean, pretty, with lots of benches and park blocks, a few playgrounds, a giant central library, a university, tons of shopping and places to eat, and three different modes of public transportation, all of them free within the downtown zone. So, yeah, Atlanta, not so much.

**I’ve decided that Crying Is Okay. In fact, I think it makes me a good reader, or rather, being emotionally available does. I’m the girl who, when reading Atonement, got so upset I threw the book across the room and said “I hate you,” to the air. This was because I knew McEwan was about to kill off my favorite character and I was not pleased, not pleased at all. It takes a rare book or poem to do that to me, just as it takes a tough conversation to do the same, but it’s possible. And I’ve decided to embrace that about myself. Embrace the Emotionally Available, people!

***Friend One, on the phone yesterday, said, “I think you find ways for these things to happen to you so you can put them on your blog.” That’s an ugly accusation, Friend One! And totally not true, since I could recount about 8 Angels Camp stories with similar elements, all of which occurred way before blogs were invented.

****I’ll send $5.00 to the first person who emails me with the correct guess of that poet’s real name. And a copy of Atonement. One guess only, people*.

*The infamous footnote of a footnote! Which is to add that anyone except Friend One can guess. Otherwise, I will have to call shenanigans.

Miscellany: The Atlanta Edition

Okay, first things first. Ativan? Miracle drug. I took one little tiny thing (So cute! So tiny!) 20 minutes before I boarded my first flight. Before I knew it, I was settled into my seat, smiling warmly as I looked out at the wing. When we took off, I closed my eyes, took a few deep breaths, and was fine. Fine. At some point, I wondered how I might test the ability of the Ativan to squelch anxiety, and decided that I’d just think of my checking account, a pondering which has been known to make me nauseous. This time, at 36,000 feet, I smiled. Smiled.

*****

Friend One was annoyed about how much I flirted with the help, as she called it. One night, being seated by Nabil at the southern bistro in the hotel, I made some witty banter with him, and Friend One said, loudly, “Stop!” while the rest of us giggled.

She was just mad because the clerk who checked me in wrote his name on my keycard holder and said, “if there’s anything you need, just let me know.”

Yeah, yeah. I know. But let me have a little fun at least.

****

This was the trip where I made my very first room service order. After a day of no food and lots of walking, I decided on a giant hamburger and french fries, and even impressed myself by finishing it all.

****

I talked to tons of editors and got some good names, made some good connections. I talked to lots of writers as well, which is probably less useful but was about 300 times more interesting.

****

I decided to have a blast despite what happened with the poet. If anything, I’m a tough girl, and I think I knew what was coming, though part of me can be still counted among the walking wounded.

****

I lost my two favorite pairs of earrings in Atlanta. This makes me very sad. One was my good luck earrings, which I always wear when I fly (except for my two flights home), made of little jade turtles. I’ve had those things for years.

****

Among said fun events was the fact I got Friend One and myself into the exclusive reception on the top of the Hilton. Christian, the prick at the door, wouldn’t let us in despite the fact several invited guests wanted us there and were arguing with him. But I figured out a way in through the uber-expensive French restaurant next door, and Friend One and I stayed until they turned the lights on. At which point, when we walked out, I winked at Christian. He was not at all pleased. Not pleased at all.

****

I saw Dorianne Laux read with several other poets. While the others were decent, Dorianne read three poems, and rocked the audience to the point that, after she finished her third, the entire crowd erupted in wild applause and someone in the back yelled “Fuck yeah!”

Whenever a poetry reading ends that way, you know somethings gone right. Or horribly wrong, of course.

****

I met Hank, another poet (female), who has a book coming out in a few months. We roomed together with Friend One and another poet, Nat. Hank and I hit it off, both of us writers and single mothers, and we spent several nights in the crowded bar in the lobby, playing pool.

All in all, it wasn’t bad. I’m glad I went.

*tm

Miscellany: The Love Edition

December 2005:

Jon took me out for a birthday dinner and Christmas celebration where we had planned on exchanging gifts. I had picked my favorite Thai food place—the one with the complicated cocktails called “Thai Me Up,” and “Phuket Passion”—and we were both dressed nicely, happy to see each other.

For some reason, though, we decided to exchange gifts in the car before going in. Maybe we knew something, sensed something, because this proved to be a good choice. Jon gave me my gift first. That is, to say, he reached behind the seat and pulled out a stuffed animal (unwrapped!) then handed it to me. “Happy Birthday.” Long pause. “And Merry Christmas!”

It was a stuffed cheetah. With a garish pink bow around its neck. I momentarily considered tying it around Jon’s.

But before you collectively string Jon up, you should know that I then handed him my gift. Perfectly wrapped with thick blue paper covered with embossed silver snowflakes and tied with glittery ribbon, it made a pretty picture.

Then he opened it. I had given him two books. Two literary books. “These were my favorite books this year,” I said proudly.

One of those books was on the Rwandan genocide. Because you know nothing says “I love you, Merry Christmas!” like a book on the Rwandan genocide. The Rwandan fucking genocide.

We both sat in the car for a full minute, staring at the peculiar gifts in our laps, wondering at them like an archeologist might wonder at some newly discovered specimen of invertebrate.

Yes, it might have been a sign. Probably several. One of which is definitely that no one should ever have to date me.

*****

Today, on a marquee of an adult video store called Imagine That!:

“Back Door Outlet Store”

I nearly drove my car into the median.

*****

My high school sweetheart, Olney, and I regularly broke up during the three years we dated. Often it would happen right before a formal dance. Which seems rather suspect, especially as I go through the dances I went to, the dresses I bought, and I realize we never attended one together. Highly suspect!

Regardless, on one such occasion, my friends and I were planning an elaborate dinner party for eight before the dance when Olney and I broke up two days before. “This is crap,” I said. “I’m going to find another date.” My friends were incredulous, but I did.

I took the butcher.

The night before the dance, my friend Nicole and I were buying some complicated red meat product, when the butcher (who was 22 and cute) asked what it was for. We explained, he flirted with me, I flirted back (as I am wont to do), and once I explained my predicament, he offered to escort me to said dance.

I distinctly remember doing some sort of jump-for-joy in the cereal aisle of Fry’s afterwards*.

The night of the dance, though, all of my friends had convinced me, during the hours of hair construction and makeup application and shoe discussion, that there was no way The Butcher would show. But show he did.

The other guys were in the front room of my house (my parents had taken my brothers out so that we’d have the space to ourselves) when The Butcher showed up. They all made small talk while I sent the other girls out to do a little recon. “Find out what he’s wearing,” I said. “And what kind of car he’s driving.”

Nicole and Tiffany conducted said recon, then came back with the goods: He had brought a dozen beautiful roses and was smartly dressed in a new shiny suit (this was 1990 people). But there was one detail that was too much. When Tiffany whispered, “Camaro” to me, I was overcome, and yelled out “CAMARO!” with the same joy the anunciador yells GOAL at a futbol match. Sadly, at that exact moment The Butcher was telling the other guys: “I hate it when girls just like me for my car.”

Then they all looked down the hallway where we girls were whooping like we’d hit the lottery.

*****

This is the place where the secret blog entry would go. If I had a secret blog. Which I don’t. So there.

*****

Me: I need help.

Friend R: Okay. With what?

Me: Don’t laugh.

Friend R: It’s that bad?

Me: I want help buying underwear.

Friend R: What?

Me: I want help buying underwear. Picking out cute underwear.

(long pause)

Me: What?

Friend R: I was just going to ask if you really needed a support system for buying
underwear. But then I realized you did.

Me: Happy now?

Friend R: Yes. Let’s go. And I’m making you go to the sword store!

*****

In the car, a few months ago, as we drove through Salem near where Jon lives:

Thing One: Why did you and Jon break-up?

Me: It’s complicated, Thing One.

Thing One: Why is it complicated? Didn’t you guys love each other?

Me: Yes, but sometimes things just don’t work out.

Thing One: Why?

Me: You’ll understand when you’re older.

Thing One (gently, and with great care): Do you understand?

*****

Months ago, on a marquee of yet another adult video store:

“Now we have gift cards! Buy some for Christmas!”

Because, certainly if a book on the Rwandan genocide says Merry Christmas, you can say it about 10 times better with a gift card from a porn shop: “Let’s celebrate Jesus’ birthday! Here’s a gift card so you can buy yourself some glitter lube!”

*****

An email from Kari:

Every girl worries about the first date and all that. It’s natural.

And if she doesn’t, then I hate her already.

---

And finally, an old IM I found between Friend Omega (who became convinced that what I needed was a good sex rebound post-separation instead of dating anyone aka Jon) and I, circa 2005 about love, marriage, sex and fucking:

Friend Omega: Damn it TM why didn't you wait until you'd gotten dick like I said?

Terrible Mother: From whom?

Friend Omega: Anyone!

Terrible Mother: Well, I have been flirting with this grad student in the English department.

Friend Omegas: NO GRADUATE STUDENTS AT THE UNIVERSITY OF OREGON, TM!

Terrible Mother: I thought it was just for sex!

Friend Omega: NO!

Terrible Mother: And really, if it's a grad student, it doesn't count as sex. I'm pretty sure about this.

Friend Omega: Maybe, maybe, a graduate pharmacology major.

Terrible Mother: A pharmacology major?

Friend Omega: But English, Creative Writing, these sorts of things? No.

Terrible Mother: I'm not talking about marriage! I'm talking about SEX!

Friend Omega: I know what you're talking about. If you were talking about marriage, that'd be okay.

Terrible Mother: What? Why?

Friend Omega: Because marriage doesn't involve awkward avoiding-eye-contact moments until YEARS after the fact. Sometimes months, but months we can work with. Hours are tricky.

Terrible Mother: but you typically HAVE SEX sometime in marriage.

Friend Omega: No you don't.

Terrible Mother: I know this. I once had sex in marriage. That was a long time ago, though. I think The Spice Girls were still together.

Friend Omega: You had “married-sex.” You made love.

Terrible Mother: Shut up, Omega.

Friend Omega: “What are you making for the bake sale, TM?"
"Love."

Terrible Mother: I don’t see your point, frankly.

Friend Omega: My point is that one night of naked debauchery makes for awkwardness the whole year round, not just at holidays like marriage does. Marriage is sustained debauchery.

Terrible Mother: is that what you're calling it now?

Friend Omega: Marriage is bauchery.

Terrible Mother: I knew you were typing that.

Friend Omega: You knew because I hit "Enter" and it showed you. That's no trick. You're no David Copperfield.

Terrible Mother: Well, you're no Siegfried and Roy!

(long pause)

Terrible Mother: Oh. Well…

*tm

*Before Fry’s became the individually-themed-mega-computer and home store, it was a grocery store. In Lodi and Stockton. No, I’m not kidding.

Listened to "Chan, Chan" from the Buena Vista Social Club soundtrack while writing this.

Miscellany: The Neurotic Edition

I'm flying to AWP on February 28th, a fact which seemed to stick out in my mind when I made the flight reservations, but not enough for me to muddle over it much.

Then I talked to my mom.

"February 28th?" she said. "You can't fly on February 28th!"

At this point in the narrative it should be noted that I knew better than to ask why. Yet, much like the requisite busty blonde in the horror movie follows the trail of blood, wide-eyed and smiling in her pristine cheerleader outfit, I asked anyway.

"Because! That's the day your father died!"

Of course. Of course. I don't know why the actual date always escapes my otherwise near-perfect memory, but it does. I remember that it was at the end of February, but I almost never recall the exact date of my own accord.

"Mom, I cannot believe you just said that."

"It's the 10th anniversary!"

"MOM! I'm afraid of flying! You can't do this to me!"

"Well, it's bad luck, sweetheart. Can't you change your flight date?"

"No I can't change my flight date. That's crazy talk! This is all crazy talk! GAH!"

"Well, I just wanted you to be aware."

And, end scene.

*****

When I was seven, we lived near what was then the only active volcano in the Continental US. Our house was 45 miles from Mt. Lassen, and the back deck framed it perfectly. My parents took us there often to see the boiling mud pots and the steaming lakes.

"Someday, this volcano will erupt again," my mom would say.

"It will?" I'd ask.

"Yes." And she'd nod sagely.

She neglected to mention that "someday" meant "sometime in the next 12,000 years." So my entire early childhood was replete with nightmares where I'd awake to find the house filling with lava.

Well, I only had those nightmares until I was 8. Because after that my mom told me, "Oh no. The lava wouldn't kill you. The burning ash and gas would. From the inside out."

*****

I've always been a bit of a chef, even as a kid, and I'd make up my own recipes. Of course, they weren't things like Gorgonzola, Pear and Hazelnut Ravioli in a Browned Butter Sauce (something I've been working to perfect, off and on, for months now), but they were still fairly advanced for a 10-year old.

One night, I cooked pork chops for my family. Pork chops, steamed brocolli and rice. It was pretty, and I was proud of it.

Then my mom cut into her pork chop. "Pink juice!" she squealed. "We'll all get trichinosis."

"What's trichinosis?" I asked.

"It's worms that will kill you!" she said, not noting that it would take something on the level of Trichinosis Apocolypse to do so.

We all stared at our plates as though they might jump up and bite us. Then Mom got up and fried the death right out of those things.

It wasn't until I was 19 that I started eating pork again without feeling like I was playing the culinary version of Russian Roulette.

*****

Yesterday, approximately one week after the first talk concerning my upcoming flight:

"Well, did you at least buy the extra insurance?"

*****

Conversation with my mother, circa 1985:

"Mom, I'm afraid of The Night Stalker."

"Why honey?"

"I'm afraid he's going to break into our house and kill us."

"But he's in Southern California, sweetheart. So he's not going to come all the way up here to do that."

"He won't?"

"No. But I'm sure we have plenty of serial killers right here. They could be anywhere, really."

*****

*tm

Conversations I've Recently Had, All of Which Ended with Me Saying "Motherfuck"

Tim-Tim and me after a Saturday night of cooking, child-wrangling and bribery (as it pertained to getting the Things to eat eggplant) together:

Me: That was a lot of work. Thanks for helping me with the dishes.

Tim-Tim: You're welcome. But yeah, the Things were a little wound up tonight.

Me: One thing's for sure. I'm never introducing them to any man I'm dating until I have a ring on my finger.

Tim-Tim: Well, you should probably super-glue it on first.

******

IM'ing with Fort Awesome:

Me: Way Too Bashful to be a Republican told me to tell you hi. He's a sweet guy.

Fort Awesome: Who voted for Bush twice.

Me: Nobody's perfect, Fort Awesome.

Fort Awesome: Right. Did you know Hitler was great with animals and small children?

Me: I hate when you say that. Anyway, I have poet gossip.

Fort Awesome: You do?

Me: Yeah. I heard that This Famous Poet likes to get it on in a specific bathroom in a specific fast food restaurant in a specific city. Isn't that gross?

Fort Awesome: Nobody's perfect, TM.

*****

Friend Omega: I have my first Obama campaign meeting tonight.

Me: Cool. I'd love to work with him.

Friend Omega: Hey, if I get hired to Obama's White House, will you be the Donna to my Josh?

Me: I would be the Donna to your Josh.

Friend Omega: But not annoying like Donna.

Me: What? But I want to be annoying like Donna. Will you do that thing that Josh does, where he pretends to get flustered?

Friend Omega: I don't pretend. I actually get flustered.

Me: Can you make it cute?

Friend Omega: No. And anyway, my boss won't make the stupid bank deposit. Call him and say something, would you?

Me: Would Donna?

Friend Omega: No. She'd have some very annoying parallel to draw about it. Like "I didn't give you the change for your sandwich because you'd spend it wrong, like you say people would do with their taxes." Stupid girl.

Me: But then why would you want me to be her? This is a very confusing scenario.

Friend Omega: I want you to fulfill her role, not to actually take on her characteristics.

Me: I see. So we would just banter for years and carry on a mostly sexless relationship for others to appreciate?

(pause)

Friend Omega: Maybe this would work better if you were the Sam to my Toby.

*tm

Why I Should Not Be Allowed Any Responsibility for Anyone, Anywhere, Ever

I read this headline and thought it was about Sting.

I don't think I'm getting enough sleep, guys.

*tm

Miscellany: The Intimate Edition

I've always been a pro-proper-term-for-the-genitals kind of mom. You know the type: no "wee-wee" or "pee-pee." In our house, it's always "penis" and "vagina." An unpredicted, but nonetheless welcome, side effect was when my grandmother had a near-aneurysm when Thing One saying, perfectly poised, "sex is when a penis and vagina unite!" She was 5. Thing One, I mean. Not my Grandmother, who choked her lovely 77-year old head nearly off*.

However, a few weeks ago, Thing One asked me what a labia was. I was a little taken aback, as this was a word I hadn't known until high school (and only after the various and sundry right-wing zealots on the school board were forced to allow something besides abstinence-only sex ed.)**. However, I did what any good pro-proper-term-for-the-genitals-mom would: I pulled up Wikipedia.

This was a rookie-move, apparently, as Thing One's response would suggest. "That, that's what...that's what it looks like when you're grown up?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

"I don't believe you."

I should have answered by saying "Quiet, Girl! Do you think Wikipedia would lie?" However, I did the whole hippie mother thing and assured her all would be well.

But a week later, out of the blue, as Fort Awesome and I were driving the Things home, a voice called out from the backseat: "Fort Awesome, can I see your vagina?"

Things Two and Three thought this hilarious, and have since taken to asking friends (not all of them female) if they can see their respective vaginas.

*****

Thing Two, several months ago in the Target restroom: "HEY! I have a foreskin!"

*****

In September, at the First Name School's Family Picnic:

"Fatally Hip Mrs. Friend Two, why are some of the women so standoffish to me now?"

"You mean the Coterie of Married Moms?"

"Yes."

"Oh, they're just jealous that we're single mothers."

"They are?"

"Yeah. Because they know we get new sex. Lots and lots of new sex."

[pause]

"You're totally the guy in your relationship with the Dark Horse, aren't you?"

[sheepishly] "Yeah."

"Poor Dark Horse."

"Poor nothing! He should be lucky he has me!"

*****

A few nights ago, on the phone with Friend R:

Friend R: I hear that some girls get landing strips.

Me: Landing strips? I thought they were called racing stripes.

Friend R: Wouldn't racing strips be horizontal?

Me: Ummm, no.

Friend R: They'd look like merging signs.

Me: Or traffic signals in Canada. I hate the traffic signals in Canada!

Friend R: Yeah.

Me: But they're not horizontal. Because then how would any boy know where to go?

Friend R: If the boys you're dating are that stupid, they don't deserve it.

Me: Me? Who said I had a racing stripe?

Friend R: Landing strip. And you should do something.

Me: I should?

Friend R: Yes. A little upkeep.

Me: Jesus Christ, why are we having this conversation?

Friend R: Now, I could lend you my tools.

Me: Tools?

Friend R: You know. My beard trimmer...

Me: [chokes on own tongue]

Friend R: ...but I think maybe that would make us a little too intimate.

Me: Oh, you think?

Friend R: So, you should just buy your own.

Me: Friend R, aside from all the things that are just wrong with this conversation, there is no way I can justify the expense of a hair clipper for that. I just can't.

Friend R: Well, why not?

Me: Because it would be for one thing only. And not even a necessary thing.

Friend R: Well, you could trim Thing Two's hair with it.

Me: Jesus! That's awful!

Friend R: What? He's been between your legs once.

*tm

*This post makes me sound all violently-inclined to my Grandma. But she's very cool and I love her dearly.

**It still took them several years to stop banning books like The Color Purple and 1984.

***I know. A pun. The lowest form of humor. But if you can't float a pun on your own blog, then where can you, I ask. Where?

Miscellany

I've been MIA on the blog for awhile; sorry 'bout that. I think it's a combination of work stress and post-holiday deflation. It seems a long ways until spring and Jesus Christ, I'd like it to be warm again.

*****

The other night, Fatally Hip Mrs. Friend Two was over decompressing with a bottle of red wine (she also brought chocolate-chip cookie dough ice cream for the kids). At one point, we were chatting, and she mentioned Oprah within earshot if Thing One.

"Who's Oprah?" asked Thing One.

"Oprah is the person who controls the entire American economy," replied Fatally Hip Mrs. Friend Two, coolly.

"Oh! That is so going on the blog."

Thing One sighed and said, "Oh no. Not the godforsaken blog."

*****

AWP is fast approaching, and I'm sorta anxious about it, for all kinds of reasons. One, barring an act of Friend Two, I'll be flying alone. Alone. Flying. Me. Me, the girl who, when the plane banks 0.008 of a degree, grabs the seat in front of her as though she could control the plane that way. Even flying with someone freaks me out, and I'm not joking when I say that I need drugs to do the deed. But alone?

Whoever has to sit next to me is totally screwed guys. Totally screwed.

I think I could halfway do it if I had good drugs (Xanax does not work well, remember and remember?) and some knitting and a book, and an iPod. But I have no iPod! Pfft.

Second, I'm meeting up with several people, and this is sort of nervewracking to me. I can't explain it better. Or, I could, but I refuse to. So there.

*****

Doing a reading tomorrow night at a local bookstore but it's, like, for 4-5 minutes, so I don't know if that counts as anything. Does it? I mean, 4-5 minutes for prose...

But I'm doing it anyway, and it'll be nice to get up in front of a crowd and read my work.

*tm

Miscellany

Thing One: Superman has powers, right?
Terrible Mother: Yes.
Thing One: Does Batman?
Terrible Mother: (thinking) No.
Thing One: Then why is he a superhero?
Terrible Mother: Because he chooses to be one.
Thing One: So. That doesn't make you super. He can't fly. He can't burn things with his eyes. He's not fast.
Terrible Mother: He has all this advanced technology.
Thing One: Oh.

30 minutes later...

Thing One: It's just money.
Terrible Mother: What?
Thing One: Batman's only a superhero because he has money.
Terrible Mother: But he has technology, Thing One.
Thing One: Who cares. He just bought everything!
Terrible Mother: What about Green Lantern?
Thing One: He just has a stupid ring!

********

I missed the Poem of the Week this week. WTF? How did I do that?

********

Financial woes abound, people. Abound. Another long-time, but recently partnered, single mom in my office described going to a financial planner early after her divorce. After a few hours, he threw his hands up in the air and said, "You're fucked." Yes. In the ass even.

********

Among the financial woes was last week's drama, which included the bank losing my deposit. Like a moron*, I deposited $500 cash into the ATM. When I went to check my balance online the next evening, it wasn't there. As in not even on the system. It was already late, so I couldn't call anyone.

But the stress, the stress of losing $500 was so great that I thew up several times in the middle of the night, cried, couldn't sleep.

The next day was my birthday.

The money was eventually found--the ATM hiccupped and somehow took my deposit and put it into another part of the ATM (who knew it was like a Terry Gilliam set in there?) but the damage was done and I was a train wreck for a little bit after. All that money, I thought.

I don't know how to not worry about money, and this feeling, it reminds me of being married. Always something wrong, something really wrong, that I can't fix.

********

Friend R: I need to ask you a favor...
Terrible Mother: oh God. Okay, go ahead.
Friend R: I'm a little worried at the moment. I can't access my computer in my apartment, and I'm afraid my apartment's been broken into.
Terrible Mother: So you're asking me to do a looksee?
Friend R: Yes. More than likely, there's just a problem with my DSL, but I'm paranoid, and I was wondering if you would drive by and make sure all the windows and doors are intact.
Terrible Mother: No problem.
Friend R: You rock.
Terrible Mother: Truth be told, I owe you. I'm emotionally needy and you lent me a laser level.
Friend R: Well, do you like lemon meringue pie?
Terrible Mother: Yeah, I love it. Why?
Friend R: Because I've learned how to make them from scratch. and my new mixer mixes the FUCK out of some meringue.
[long pause]
Terrible Mother: I will sooo be your bitch for some meringue.

********

Terrible Mother: I'm writing a blog entry and I need to ask you something
Fort Awesome: Okay.
Terrible Mother: Do you think the word "midget" is offensive?
Fort Awesome: I think they prefer "little person."
Terrible Mother: Right. I know that. But it's hard to tell the story without saying "midget."
Fort Awesome: Might you say " diminutively statured?
Terrible Mother: No. No that sounds awful. Look, I'll send you the section.

[long pause as Fort Awesome reads]

Fort Awesome: There's too much of the funny, not enough of the sad and poignant.
Terrible Mother: I asked about the word midget!
Fort Awesome: Are you sure he was a midget? There's a difference between a midget and a dwarf, you know.
Terrible Mother: Yeah, I know. He was a midget. But the point is, is it offensive?
Fort Awesome: Well, it's odd right now because, narratively, you noticing him comes too late. It's too delayed. The timing is off.
Terrible Mother: You're right. The timing is off.
Fort Awesome: And I think you could mitigate any offense by saying something about him as a human, some small connection.
Terrible Mother: Yes, yes. This is good. Explain.
Fort Awesome: Like you could look at him and see some common exhaustion, some world weariness. The both of you misplaced, sad, foolish.

[long pause]

Terrible Mother: This is a goddamned blog entry. IT'S NOT A SHORT STORY! IT DOESN'T HAVE TO BE ART!
Fort Awesome: Shit.
Terrible Mother: And I was with you for a moment. Fuck, I was totally nodding.
Fort Awesome: Sorry! I'm sorry!
Terrible Mother: You know what I think? I think we miss workshop and it's coming out all sideways on us. Making us wedge-up** fucking blog entries.
Fort Awesome: Where's the pain, TM? Where do you touch upon the deep, unfullfilled need of a midget in Albany?
Terrible Mother: Look what the MFA has done to us, FA. LOOK!
Fort Awesome: Alright, I'll give you that we're fucked up but, seriously, tm, this--midget in jester hat with a balloon while you're getting dumped--could have only happened to you.

*tm

*well, like a moron who needed to deposit cash and then high-tail it back to work on her lunch hour

**One of the ways we talked about fiction in Ehud's workshop utilized the concept of The Wedge, as he called it. It basically indicates that the plot moves along on a surface level, while the development of the protagonist must continually move to an ever-deepening level. AKA not for blog entries.