The Vicious Cycle of Crafting

Boss took it upon themself to clean the kitchen the other day. Not just clean, but CLEAN. While this is fantastic on so many levels, it has let Boss in on a deep, dark secret that I have attempted to hide from all but my closest of kin. I am, something of a hoarder.  *shame*

Not the like, 2 dozen cats and 20 years worth of newspapers appearing on A&E kind of hoarder, but the "I'm totally going to use that at some point..." kind of hoarder.

It all started with my mother. The Martha Stewart of recyclable's. I like to fancy myself something of a crafty individual, able to create useful objects from various and sundry bits of crap found around the house and the local dollar store. I have NOTHING on my mother however.  Every event was a potential treasure trove of crafting paraphernalia, every recycling bin fair game. Soda cans? a little spray paint and some googly eyes and they become ghosts for a festive Halloween wreath. Plastic forks you can't seem to unload? No problem, add some lace and spray starch and you have a delightful wall hanging just in time for spring! Plastic bottles, hospital grade plastic tubing, bits of this and yards of that, everything had crafting potential. It all lived (somewhat) neatly, in our garage in the receptacle termed affectionately, "the junk box". No Camp Fire meeting was complete without Mom pulling out a bag of what one would assume is garbage, dousing it in glitter and tempera and returning with art.

I always admired my mothers ability to both save, and create and I have attempted to model this behavior in my adult years. The saving, that I have down, the creating however, not so much. When Boss began the process of cleaning out the kitchen, this became...rather apparent. The most abundant source of craft-ables (this is my new term for shit I intend to craft with) are plastic grocery bags.  I have saved plastic grocery bags since i began to grocery shop. My mother would save them in artfully created fabric sleeves with drawstring, conveniently placed about the kitchen for use as garbage bags, lunch bags, impromptu over night packs etc. I however, do not have the patience to create artfully designed fabric sleeves with drawstring, and instead cram them in whatever bit of space I can find in my kitchen and bathroom.

When questioned about my hoarding of said bags, my response is always;

 "I'm saving them" 

"For what?" Boss asks quizzically.

"I don't know, something...." and I wander off hoping the question will die and the bags will go unmoved. No such luck.

"I googled some ideas for their use"  Boss says helpfully.  Apparently such a thing as "Plarn" or Plastic Yarn can be made from my stock pile of grocery bags. This "Plarn" then can be crocheted into useful objects like reusable shopping bags! genius, I can do all of those things and save the environment to boot! I have a mission, the bags have a use, Boss can no longer justify throwing them away...conversation over...No such luck.

"Will you actually do this?" Boss asks, eyebrows raised.

"Totally!"  an edge of doubt in my voice betrays my optimistic reply and enthusiastic nodding

"Honey, will you ACTUALLY do this? or will they continue to collect here, awaiting your use, until one day I open the cupboards, they fall on my head,  and before I kill you, say once again, 'honey, WHY are you saving these?'

"Well..."

"I'm throwing them out."

"Wait! I might do it!"

"I'm throwing them out!"

And this is how it goes. With my bag of dryer lint that I promise to one day turn into fire starters, my 16 boxes of super cheap paraffin just right for making candles with the 6,000 broken crayons I have stashed in PinkOnes craft drawers (never have to buy Christmas presents again!) My vat of almond oil and bags of dried herbs and flowers I've procured for making my own scented oils, the 2 dozen egg cartons I inexplicably stash about like a junky hiding from the narc squad and the inexplicably large amount of flower-less plastic stems left over from my frenzied need to create 40's era hair clips from dollar store silk flowers.

Dude was not successful in liberating me from my treasures, Vulcan had a little more success, getting me to move them over to my friend Monica's who (luckily) has an equally cumbersome trash fetish with infinitely more space in which to hide them. Boss however, does not accept my plaintive cries of "no really! you should SEE the hair bows I can make out of that!"  and tosses them anyway, like...well like trash.

While I will never take up my mother's reign as Queen of Recyclable Crafting, I do now have actual counter and storage space in my kitchen. I find it challenging to release my habits. Particularly these sneaky, potentially useful ones. I still dream of a day when my mother will say to me "well isn't that lovely! Where DID you buy it?" (we are of course wearing Victorian garb and speaking with affected British type accents while sipping tea for no apparent reason) and I can reply, "Why mother! don't you know? I MADE it!"  (she will then gasp in awe and commend not only my crafting prowess, but my thrifty nature as well, there may be applause involved, I haven't decided) 

But, as Boss says, "If I let you keep these (insert garbage-esque item Boss is unable to see the crafting potential in), the vicious crafting cycle will continue. You will stash it away, look up something to do with it, stash it away with a plan in mind, forget the plan, and then 6 months later come across them again and say...'gee i should look up something to do with that..." Boss is, as usual...correct

Oooh...2 liter soda bottles....

House Wif-ery Day 1

As many of you may or may not know, I am now officially unemployed. My last day at work was Friday, and I am now joining the masses of former claims analysts wandering around Bellingham aimlessly looking for something to do during the day. Today is my first official day as a house wife/stay at home mom, a role I have only adapted once before in my life, and to be honest, kind of sucked at. I have never been the "plan a day full of cleaning and activities rife with education and fun" kind of parent. I am more the, "watch TV until you can't take the guilt any more and then go to the park and read" kind of parent. But ever since learning of my impending unemployment over a month ago, I resolved that this time would be different.

Any historical foray's into the land of domesticity have failed after a day or two of poorly risen loaves of bread, one super clean room of the house, and an ill begotten field trip to the railroad museum that ends in both of us crying. Within a matter of days we are back to frozen veggies and ICarly.  All of these attempts at active parenting leave me stricken with guilt and feeling inadequate once again. I console myself with lack luster promises of doing better next week, and excuses surrounding my work schedule. Eventually I have myself convinced ALL parents are this inadequate and Parenting Magazine is simply a ploy brought to us by Pottery Barn and LeLeche League designed to convince us that we should be shiny happy soccer moms with perfectly organized organic households to guilt us into buying color coordinated plastic bins and nurse until our kids are in college. Fascists.

I awoke this morning totally ready to execute the plans I'd been making for the last month. We would arise early, do some mother/daughter yoga, make muffins (organic whole wheat of course!), and walk to school. I would then return home and think smugly to myself "what a fine parent I have been! all other mothers simply pale in comparison!" it would be fantastic.

I failed to mention that I rose about an hour later than I initially planned...so that cut into my muffin making time (-5 mom points) but I did get PinkOne up by 8, and for the first time in...ever...she woke without argument and dressed herself (in matching clothes) without complaint. (+5 mom points!) Instead of the delightful dried fruit protein muffins I intended to feed her (-3) she got a bagel with cream cheese, but the bagel was homemade (+2!)  and whole wheat (+2 more!) While she ate, I got started on my muffins, so those were in the oven by the time she was done eating, and we were ready for yoga via YouTube. We did like...20 minutes of awkward, chubby mom and awkward tiny person yoga in the living room before we both decided this was toates hard and we should try again tomorrow. (plus 5 for yoga -2 for not finishing the tape)

So the first batch of muffins are done, (+3) and the laundry is in the washer (+2) and the kid is fed (+3) and dressed with combed hair and brushed teeth (+a bazillion) and its 9am.  Just the right amount of time for us to walk/ride out bikes to school at a leisurely pace whilst idyllicly walking the dog and sipping my coffee. Maybe I'm not so bad at this house mom thing after all...

We mount the bike, the dog is leashed, I have the coffee, and we head out. This is where the trouble starts.

1) my dog is the WORST leash dog in all of the land. Picture attempting to leash and properly walk a drooling, snarfling, snake that weighs 30lbs and wants to smell EVERYTHING. My leisurely walk quickly turned into a brush with death. There was a leash wrapped around my ankles, a pug under the bike tire, a pug on the sidewalk, a pug in the neighbor's yard, a pug stopping to snarfle every 2 and a half feet, just in case there was some sort of variation in smell from 2 and a half feet before. She also had to pee every 4 and a half feet, and crap at least twice on the 1/4 mile walk (and guess which irresponsible pet owner forgot the doggie bags? sorry neighbors!) Once the peeing, crapping, snarfling and attempted murder by leash was complete, there were still other dogs to bark at, small children to demand pets from and the occasional invisible danger to alert the town to. Once we returned home, Idgie was whipped from all of the activity, and so was I.

2) PinkOne is probably the LAZIEST six-year-old I have ever encountered. Now, I was a lazy six-year-old, despite being into sports from an early age, I was NEVER one to choose movement over more sedentary activities. However, I did enjoy the occasional bike ride, especially short distances. PinkOne was very excited about the promise of getting to ride her bike to school today and was all helmeted and back packed and smiling ready to rock when the pug was leashed and I had my coffee in hand. Fast forward approximately five minutes. We reach the 7-11 parking lot and all I hear from about 10 feet in front of me (while attempting to untangle myself from the dog yet again) is: "DIS IS TOO HAWD!" PinkOne is standing next to her training wheeled pink and purple bike of awesome with a look of utter defeat and irritation, the Disney Princess helmet sitting askew on her head.

"Potato," I say with love, "you can do this, it's not far at all to school"

"Its SOOO FAR!! Don't you SEE? The school is ALL the way up THERE!" she points to the school, which is within sight, and a distance of approximately five minutes away by bike/foot.

Eventually, I coax her back on the bike, having to push it with my foot every ten or so feet, while disentangling myself from the pugsnake monster, as she groans her way through the ride. We arrive at school just after the first bell (-5) and she is safely in the building after a begrudging hug and kiss. I walk home feeling accomplished and relatively happy with myself.

Fast forward two hours. I have completed the muffins, they are pretty delicious, served Boss their morning coffee and begun this blog feeling like, hey, I might be able to get used to this house wife thing, when my phone rings. Boss answers it and its Jolinda, the friendly office lady from PinkOne's school. PinkOne apparently has crippling stomach pains that will not subside no matter how long she rests in the office and simply MUST come home as soon as possible and be cared for. We run to the school to pick her up, where we are greeted by PinkOne in the parking lot, hamming up the "I'm just so terribly sick I can only be revived by copious amounts of Nickelodeon and Sprite." What PinkOne did not count on, was that I INVENTED the fake sick so you can stay home and watch TV in my youth. I can spot a fake sicker a mile away. She is relegated to her room sans television to recover as I write this.

So, my first day at house-wifery hasn't completely failed, but I'm thinking there is still a lot of room for improvement.

 Tomorrow's goal: get PinkOne to school on time, and keep her there. Also, not bringing snakepug with me, who is happily snoring next to me recovering from her big adventure.

Mommy Guilt is the New Black

Oh holy hell fellow Mediocre Mamas, it has been a trying couple of weeks around my house I tell you what. I am currently in the process of doing two relatively major things, resulting in a relatively large amount of anxiety and relatively low amounts of sleep.

1) I am starting a new business.  Any of you who acctually know me in real life are likely PAINFULLY aware of this fact because it is ALL I can talk about right now. I have been a photo hobbyist since I was but a little person and recently decided to take my hobby to the next level. Mostly, I wanted an insanely expensive camera and Vulcan said I couldn’t get it unless I figured out a way to make money with it. So I bought it, a lighting kit, a backdrop set and a fancy flash and I am now plugging away attempting to learn to use all of this nifty shit and remember all of the things I learned from high school photography. Biggest thing I’ve learned? Having an eye is not enough. You also need to know about color theory, light stuff and all sorts of geometry.

My first couple of shoots were okay, not great. But now that I’ve been playing around with my camera, studying my books and will be taking classes on photography and art theory in the next few months. I’m feeling relatively confident most of the time that I haven't sunk a ton of money in to something I totally suck at. 

Of note, if you have a light optimization function on your camera, TURN IT OFF. Its stupid. I’m sure there is some sort of function for this little thingy but all its done for my portraits is blow the shit out of every ones faces and create a lot of noise when dealing with low light. Your strobe will work much better without it on.

2) I has a special friend *shy giggle*

So big thing number 2 is kind of a really big thing. For sometime I’ve been toying with the idea of dating again. I’ve gone out of dates, attempted copulation one or two times with one or two people, all in the name of science. Generally, I jump into things FAR too quickly (last girlfriend and I were an item about….2 days after my husband left so….) so this go round I’m trying to be a little more conservative…yeah to hell with that. I met a woman, she is outstanding and she is Canadian. Not even the right Canada, the one that’s only an hour away. She is from the WRONG Canada which is multiple hours away. At least it is a drivable Canada rather than a flyable Canada. She is coming out to stay with us for an extended period of time in the interest of getting to know the lot of us better and to help me get the business up and running. I wiggle like a giddy school girl everytime I think about it.

Pink One is thrilled. She adores the Canadian who allows her to color with her fancy pencils and play zombie games on her laptop. Also, because Canadian is not used to being around small, pink headed children for extended periods of time, her method of child placation is to just say yes, which Pink One exploits whenever possible.

Seriously though, they get along famously and I am relatively stoked regarding this particular endeavor.

So with all of this change occurring, Pink One is kind of grasping for a little bit more attention. The business in particular is stressing her out. I feel like I have said the words “not now, mommy is busy” about 700 times in the last month. With multiple shoots every weekend, editing to do, books to read and social media marketing strategies to work out Mommy doesn’t have the time or patience she once did for crawling about on the floor playing Monster, Princess and Jon. My already limited patience for nonsense and tomfoolery has kind of dwindled to nothing. Example conversation:

PinkOne: Mom, why do alligators not wear shoes?

Mom: Lil, they have no need for shoes, now go play computer mommy is working

PinkOne: Why?

Mom: why what?

PinkOne: Why do they not need shoes?

Mom: Because swamp mud is soft, go play computer or its time for bed

PinkOne: Why?

Mom: Why what?

PinkOne: Why is it time for bed? I’m not tired. Why is swamp mud soft? Do they have McDonalds in the swamp? (Now sitting upside down on the couch) Can we go to McDonalds for dinner? Can I have some ice cream? I’m hungry RIGHT NOW I can’t wait 5 minutes for dinner? (Now hanging off the arm of the couch with a foot on my laptop) What are you working on? Why is that lady in her underpants? (I take pin up photos) Can I edit a picture? (Jumping up and down on one foot) Look at my Hannah Montana camera Puck gave me! Look what I can do? (Jumping from table to couch and back to table) Why are you making that face mom?

Mom: GO. A. WAY! JON REMOVE THE MINION I'M WORKING!

Inevitably I lock myself in my room and continue to work, interrupted intermittently by inane questions and a need to be reminded that mommy is in fact still present. I’m not proud of this interaction, nor am I proud that my poor baby has eaten mostly sandwiches for dinner the last week. Oh the mommy guilt, like a hundred tiny knives right in your heart. Any advice on balancing exciting and stressful life changes with active 5 and ¾ year old monsters that require constant attention?

The Decision Tree

A visual illustration of the mind of PinkOne:

I.DON'T.WANNA!

I've decided, I'm done with this grown up nonsense. Paying bills, making reasonably priced healthy meals, doing laundry, it's all bullshit and I quit. Vulcan and I have spent the last hour attempting fiscal responsiblity by making various charts and graphs to track how much money comes in, and how much goes out. All I really know is that my happiness to talking about money ratio is completely out of whack.

As you can see, my desire to discuss financial matters today is only .005 of the whole regarding my desire to do pretty much anything else, as illustrated by chart (1) above.

According to Vulcan's charts, I should have around $500 a month with which to buy groceries, put gas in my car, and to compulsively buy silly knick knacks that I can not live without at the grocery store (that secrets of the zodiac love sign combination candy bar and squirt gun is still the best purchase i've ever made) So here is what I would like to know, where the HELL is that $500 bucks?  This payday in particular I am racing about trying to make sure the latest of the late bills are paid and calculating just how much milk should go in each bowl of cereal so we don't run out before the food stamps come in. (That's right dad, we're suckin' off the government teet, you must be turning over in your republican grave.)

If I think about it, I'm fairly sure I can tell you exactly where that $500 bucks a month has gone.

1) My lungs and the lungs of my friends.



Yes, I know that smoking is bad and wrong and gross and disgusting...but I love it so much. I look so cool and rebellious, like James Dean. It's an instant conversation starter. "Can I bum a smoke? Oooh menthol, really? Ugh I need to quit..." all fantastic ways to meet new people and influence others. At nearly $9.00 a pack here in the land of the free and about 5 to 6 packs a week, there's nearly $200 bucks a month right there.

2) Eating above my means

I LOVE going out to dinner and cooking and ordering in...I love all of those food related endeavors. We get about $2oo a month in food stamps which gets us meat and veggies and rice and other staples of living. But, when you have a hankering for salmon risotto on a Thursday afternoon, and you don't currently have chicken stock, white wine, chanterelle mushrooms and heavy cream, not to mention rissotto rice...well it adds up. What better way to celebrate a small victory, like cleaning out the car than buying pizza for your nearest and dearest? Why WOULDN'T I spend $40 on dinner out when I could make mac-n-cheese? What has Mac-n-cheese ever done for me? Red Robin entertains me with their various kitschy objects adorning the walls and pleasant college age staff covered in flair. So, if i do this even three times a month, there's another $150 bucks.

Those two issue pretty much say it all don't they? The last $150 a month goes to things like pull ups (for an incredibly stubborn 5-year-old who shouldn't need them please note) dog food, dish soap, tampons and toilet paper. All completely legitimate expenses, unlike the other two which are purely detrimental to the health and well-being of myself and my wallet.

See what I mean? were I NOT an adult, I could say: Fuck it. I'm going to wipe my ass with rolled up newspaper and buy a pack of smokes instead. Fuck it. bills-shmills I'm taking a road trip to Canada right now. Fuck it. Who really needs tampons anyway? Okay, maybe that one I would continue to procure, but I might do it by knocking over a tampon machine instead of paying $4 a box. 

I know realistically that grown up land is the place to be, that my kid, vulcan and I will be just fine if we cut back on the smoking and family chain restaurants, but it still makes me want to stamp my food, jut out my lower lip and throw a pinkone style tantrum of epic proportions. I NEVER get anything I want. I NEVER get to have any fun.

FUCK YOU GROWN UP LAND !

Defending my Cervix

[caption id="attachment_702" align="alignleft" width="142" caption="Get it? I'm being judged"][/caption]

WARNING: Mom, this post contains information on my sexuality and descriptions of a gynecological nature, you might not want to read it!!

After much debate and weighing of various pros and cons, I have decided that it’s time to get back on the birth control. One of many recent steps taken to help me be a “responsible adult” or whatever, when it comes to my sexual liberties as a newly single person.  As Dude and I were trying for the last 2 years to have another pink headed potato, I wasn't too worried while we were married. After him, all of my partners have been women until rather recently, so this hasn’t been an issue.

Lately though, one thing has led to another and if I'm not a bit more careful, someone is going to end up with a potato they didn’t plan for. Since that’s how I wound up with the first one, I’ve decided to go ahead and exercise my right to easily obtainable birth control and head down to the local clinic to have my IUD put back in.

My gyno up and moved her practice to Seattle leaving me in the hands of the local not for profit sector and I was feeling a little nervous. I haven’t been to a gynecologist in sometime, about 2 years if I remember correctly. I haven’t been to the local Planned Parenthood since I was but a youthful college tramp, so this was going to be something of an adventure for me. Upon walking in I was greeted with the usual mishmash of progressive college students, unwed and possibly wed mothers, broke ass mothers to be, and terrified looking teens. I slid my ID under the bullet proof glass and was buzzed in once it was determined that I did not carry with me a pipe bomb or photo of a dead baby.

When I was called back to the sterile room I was asked a slew of pre-established questions regarding my visit today.
“Have you ever had an STD?” the earnest young CNA asks
“Does pregnancy count?” I chuckle
“No.” she is un-amused.
“Oh, umm then no” my joke going unappreciated
“Do you have any of the following types of sex 1) Oral 2) Vaginal 3) Anal?”
“Uhhhhh….(answer removed in case my mother decides to read this)”
“Do you sleep with 1) Men 2) Women 3) Both?”
“Both….” *starting to feel rather sheepish
"What are you currently using for birth control?"
"Um, well nothing actually"
"Nothing?" *insert quizzical look*
"Well, my husband and I...and then...umm, yeah, nothing" she shakes her head, makes a check, and moves on.
“Are you in a committed relationship?”
“Well that’s rather complicated, I’m going through a divorce and I live with this Vulcan but….”
“Yes or No please”
“Okay…no”
"Are you sexually active?"
"Define *active*"
"Are you having sex with one or more people?"
"Well, yeah...usually just one at a time...heh heh..." another joke goes unappreciated
“You’re getting divorced?”
“Yeah”
“Did he ever abuse you, 1) physically 2) emotionally 3) sexually?”
“Not officially I suppose…but you know it’s…”
“1, 2 or 3 ma’am”
“Uh, no then I guess”
“Have you ever been raped or sexually mistreated in any way?”
“Well, yeah…”
“Here is the number for the local sexual and domestic violence support groups please call if you have any questions concerns or thoughts of suicide. Please strip, put on the gown open to the front and drape the paper over your legs.”

Somehow I had managed to let a complete stranger into the inner workings of my insane lifestyle and sexual indecision, my sordid past, and my uncertain future all using form questions and without once looking me in the eye. I was feeling a smidge exposed and I wasn’t even wearing the paper shrug yet.

For a clinic that purports to be inclusive of all women, they do NOT make paper shrugs for the “full figured” lady of today, I can tell you that much. Desperately clinging to what little modesty I have, I attempt to close the thing over my breasts only to rip it and create an even bigger gap with which to expose myself. I opt instead to pull the paper drape a little higher and hope for the best.

Once I was adequately covered by itchy paper the worlds oldest Nurse practitioner walked into the room. This woman must have been scoping cervix's with stone tools at the dawn of gynaecology. She proceeded to work her way through the same list of exceptionally personal questions the CNA went through, this time with slightly more detail requested, but still using the 1,2,3 system and once again refusing to acknowledge my witticisms. Once I had given her the name of every person I’d ever slept with, their bank account numbers and names of their first pets we were ready to move on to the health history portion of the quiz.

Apparently, I am fat. So that’s been established now. She took a look at my BMI and habits; something she said was new, and was apparently was not an issue back when dinosaurs got pap smears. Now, I’m used to doctors telling me to lose weight and quit smoking, it is not the first time that a doctor has looked at me like a complete idiot when I tell them that I still, even in the age of almost $9.00 a pack, and a widely accepted link between my favorite habit and crippling cancer, smoke cigarettes. However, the look that Doctor Grandma Moses shot me, when I told her not only that this was NOT the heaviest I have ever been, and that yes indeed, I do smoke about half a pack of cigarettes a day, will forever be burned into my skull. I could have told her that I have been humping the devil himself and I don’t think she would have looked half as horrified.

After promising to continue losing weight and give up the cancer sticks, she was finally ready to inspect my nether regions and prep me for the eventual temporary sterilization I have requested. I realize has she's prepping the tools that I had forgotten to shave my legs, which is for whatever reason, more embarrassing to me than all of the other questions I was forced to answer combined. After a muffled apology, and wondering why they decided octopus gloves with tiny eyeballs were the appropriate stirrup covering apparatus, I was able to calm down and let her do her thing.

The rest of the visit went routinely, despite my rampant sluttiness and disgusting personal habits, apparently my cervix is just ducky, so that’s good to know. I go in next week to see the Cro-magnon gynecologist and get my IUD inserted. Hopefully they will have my fascinating sexual history neatly filled in on the form so I don't have to repeat the sordid facts of my past. I suppose if nothing else it will make for another amusing blog post!

Pinkone-isms

Pinkone is always good for a one liner, and if you could just see her face when she utters these incredibly serious, important truths...you wouldn't be able to keep a straight face either. Here are a few of her most recent forays into making adults confused and uncomfortable.

1) Pinkone: Mom, Mom, Mom, I’m a were-ostrich

    Mom: What is that?

    Pinkone: HONK!!!!!!!!

 

2) *little boy barks in store*

      Pinkone: *whew* I’m glad he didn’t see me *meow* (softly)

      Auntie Shay Shay: Why is that, because you’re a kitty?

      Pinkone: *annoyed* NO, I’m a guinea pig, PRETENDING to BE a kitty. GOD

3) Pinkone (while shopping for clothes): Auntie, I like, really want to be hip, I just… *sigh*…want to be a hip girl.  Mom, how old do you have to be to be a hip girl?

 Mom: I would say 5 and a half

 Pinkone: AWESOME!

4) Pinkone: Remember when I wanted to cut out Tucker’s heart? I’m evil, like a villian. (thiis another story all together)

Mom: You aren’t evil, you came from me and I’m certainly not evil.

Pinkone (proudly): I know, I get my evil from Daddy.

Mom and Vulcan: *silence*

4) Pinkone: JON JON JON JON JON JON JON JON *anger and panic*

    Vulcan: What?!!!!! *rising from a near dead sleep in sheer terror*

    Pinkone: I love you *giggle and run*



6) Counselor: Pinkone, do you ever feel worried?

     Pinkone: What’s that mean?

    Counselor: Well, like you can’t sleep, and you feel nervous.

    Pinkone: Oh yeah, all the time. I never sleep.

    Counselor, thinking she’s got something here: Really? Why is that?

    Pinkone-deathly serious: I’m afraid I’m going to turn to stone.

   Counselor: REALLY? Why do you think that?

   Pinkone: *annoyed again* Ugh, because I’m a werewolf?!

   Mom: *face palm*

7) Pinkone: *gets in car from school* Mom, I broke up with Winston today.

    Mom: Oh really? Why is that?

    Pinkone: Well, he wouldn’t play with me at recess and we just don’t have nothing in common anymore.

Mom: Well that’s too bad, how did he take it?

Pinkone: He’s okay, but you know, it’s kind of awkward now.

   Mom: Well….I suppose it would be…~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I have no idea WHERE she gets this nonsense.....

Vodka and Oreos

None of you may remember my former blog as it was housed on my now defunct Myspace page and was only rarely updated. I promise not to hold it against you.

Back in those days, I ran a feature called “Tales from the Cube” in which I chronicled my adventures in corporate America as a newly working mom with a brand new potato at home. I was full of promise and cynicism, excited to spread my wings in a business appropriate, suitably Office Space kind of way.  

 Here we are 5 years later, the potato is a pink headed demon child and I’m still with the same company…that’s about all that is the same.

 There was a fourth round of layoffs at my company yesterday, eliminating pretty much my entire team; a team that I helped to build from the ground up four years ago. I get that companies need to do what they need to do to survive and god knows I’m grateful that I still have my job but damnit, I am pissed off. And what is the point of having an internet based, relatively anonymous outlet with which to write, if I can’t bitch a little bit into the blog-o-sphere?

 In the ranks of those laid off we have single moms, young adults that were already barely making enough to continue living on their own, mom’s on maternity leave, and people who are right on the verge of retirement. Not a single one of them deserved to be laid off and not a single one of them gave any less than 110% every day of work. I will give my company credit though, they offered them a fantastic severance package and will not fight them on unemployment. I don't know what to say about the actual decision makers in the company, but as far as the supervisors and managers go, they have done everything they can to keep us our jobs for as long as possible and in failing that, have made sure that we are taken care of while looking for new ones.

 So why am I bitching?

 Because IT SUCKS! My people were working full time, and still on food stamps. They begged for overtime, they worked with fewer resources and higher demand in an ever changing industry with little complaint. They busted their asses, some of them for over 10 years…and now….nothing.

 As I mentioned, this is the FOURTH round of layoffs, and our company was one of the biggest employers in town. So needless to say, the job pool in our smallish town is getting more and more shallow.

 I should be happy right? They get a good package, I still have my job, they get unemployment, and everyone is acctually in pretty decent spirits about the whole thing. Then why am I so pissed?

 I think I feel  lied to.

 When we were kids, we were told to work hard, finish school, do your best, and you will be rewarded. I was given the impression that a college degree equaled riches beyond my wildest dreams and security for the rest of my life. Well kiddies…that’s bullshit.

I graduated from college with only fast food work experience, becuase that was the only kind of job I could support while taking 22 credits. I got knocked up right out of college (don't listen when they tell you that you can't have babies, until they acctually remove the baby making parts, you can still have babies. USE A CONDOM!) and took a year off to do the mom thing while I sorted my life out.

When I was ready to go back to work, I realized that short of a fancy piece of paper and the ability to bull shit my way into sounding like I know everything, I had no marketable job skills. I was blown away by this realization.

In school, we are told again and again that the shiny piece of paper was what you needed to make it in the world. No diploma, no future. Work hard, get your paper, get the job, get the car, get the house, get the life, live the dream. While the shiny paper certainly doesn't hurt anything, what it symbolizes is no longer the gaurenteed future and white picket fence of my dreams.

 There are no constants, no “for sure” and no guarantees. When I graduated from high school, slated to attend a nice, midrate state college just far enough from home that I wouldn’t have to see my mother every weekend, I thought the world was in front of me. I felt terrified and inspired and ready to take on the world.

 Here I am, 9 years later and I’m working in a cubicle, busting my ass for low, but adequate pay (just above the poverty line thank you!) and it means very little. A down turn in the economy and the work I’ve done, the heart I’ve put in and the big fat shiny degree I worked so hard for means bubkiss.

 Thanks a lot elementary school for filling my head with fantasy!

 Okay, enough bitching for today, I promise to come back with something suitably optimistic next posting so you don’t all run screaming for the razor blades and vodka.

 To my friends that got laid off, you are all handling this far better than I am, and I admire your optimism and positive outlook. Good luck out there guys and lets get together and drink copiously as soon as possible!

 PS: You know what helps EVERYTHING? Vodka and Oreos it’s a can’t miss combination!

Finding Faith

Something my family has never done well is religion. My father was a life long agnostic and my mother has waffled back and forth from devout christian to apathetic monotheist. We hit up church fairly regularly for a couple of years, but the social aspect was really more the draw for my sisters and I.

When I got married, Dude was 100% against religion or spirtuality of any kind, including my special brand of new age/eastern/western hoo doo invented by copious amounts of pot in college and an afinity for comparitive religion courses. I read tarot and see auras, two things he was completely skeeved out by and refused to discuss. Church of any kind, was out of the question.

Though I've never been an organized religion kind of girl, and being a queer, kind of psychic, new age-y kind of gal with no husband and a live in vulcan life mate, I wasn't sure there was a church out there for the likes of me.  Since Dude moved out, I've been given more of an oppourtunity to look into the spiritual side of life. Vulcan was once a youth pastor and was raised for a time in Utah, so his foundation in organized religion is much more developed than min. For a time, we were taking Pinkone to church on a weekly basis, doing the sunday school thing and considering the possiblity of making church a regular part of our lives.

I struggle with the premise of organized religion, not becuase of the message per-se, but because of the followers, the "rules", and the potential for shunning. So I ask myself, how do I introdue Pinkone to spirituality without opening her up to the rest of it. I don't want her feeling shame becuase her mother, or eventually she, is not the "ideal" christian/buhddist/jew/whatever.

One week during our tour of churches, we attended Christ the King, a non-denominational Christian church that appeals to the "new believer".  After picking Pinkone up from Sunday school, we proceeded to ask her what she learned and how she felt about it. Ever the progressive parents, we are looking to establish a dialouge about religion and spirituality, allowing her the church perspective, and then supplementing with our own morals and beliefs as we go.

"Pinkone, what did you learn today?"

"Ugh, mother...I don't want to talk about it"

"Mkay, well, can you tell me SOMETHING about what you did in Sunday school?"

"Well, okay, I learned that God is kind of a superhero"

"Oh really? Like Batman? or the Flash?" I snicker to myself, wondering where this going.

"More like Superman. He can hear what you need and help you. I'm going to start to pray."

"Really? What are you going to pray about?"  *here is where I start thinking church might be a great thing, maybe we should go more often*

"Yeah, I figure if I pray enough, Superman will turn me into a vampire."

*face palm*

So, we are still working the proper balance of church and comic books in Pinkone's life.

What sorts of methods have you used to infuse faith and morality into your children's lives? Has church helped or hurt your plans for raising moral but open minded kids?

 

Happy Birthday to Me!

Today is the 28^th anniversary of my birth. Not by any means a traditionally significant birthday. For me however, the year between 27 and 28 has been probably the most life changing thus far.

 This time last year, I was prepping for my birthday party. A gathering that would somehow turn into the wildest of college-esque parties where cops were called, lap dances were given and hangovers were had by all. As were crabs by a few.

I was working on figuring out what my life was going to look like as a person of almost 30 in a bad marriage with too many co-dependent friends. Rather than deal with the issues head on, I ran, head first into crazy.

 I spent the first 6 months of my 27^th year fighting to stay afloat in a sea of uncertainty. I fell for a woman, for the first time in many years. Then, when i wasn't sure what to do what that information, I gave her to my husband. He then unceremoniously placed her in my position as wife and bumped me down to the position of bread winner and nanny.

I still can’t say what lead me to her, or to that life. I think it had a lot to do with this idea that more people equals more love. I have always been a slut for love. I can’t get enough and you can never prove your love to me too often or in too grand a way. I saw adding this woman to our lives as a way to amp up the love quotient in an increasingly loveless marriage. I wanted to believe that I was doing it for my daughter, that more parents, more love would be best for her. I was lying to myself and I know that now. I woke up one morning and saw that my house, both metaphorical and literal, was an absolute mess. Change had to happen immediately.

 When I finally got the courage to say no more, I was left in a spot where I felt alone, worthless, and stupid. Luckily, I have a fantastic family and friend family. They rallied for me, driving to Bellingham in the middle of the night to rescue my daughter and me from a situation in which we could not think and could get no light. They held me while I cried, they held her while she cried and let her ask the questions no one could answer. They made the worst months of my life bearable. Once I was through the initial grieving phase, which for me lasts approximately 2 weeks, I was ready to find out what my life was going to look like without a 250lb pajama wearing weight around my neck.

 Enter my Vulcan Hetero Life mate; also known as The Diet Husband, My Insignificant Other, Friend Dad, and to his friends; Jon. When I didn’t think I could stand on my own, there was Jon, propping me up. When things were so bad I didn’t know who, or where I was, there was Jon. We have been great friends for 8 years, he was the best man at my wedding and carried my daughter down the aisle. When my house was falling down, he was with me, baking bread, singing to the kids, and strategizing ways to make it better. When it was time to go, he came with me. There was no question that we would live together once we left the house. We found a place, 3 bedrooms, and started the process of making a life together.

 This is a man that has no reason to be here. He is 27, single, going to school, has no real responsibility in this world, but here he is. Every morning he gets my daughter up for school, gets her dressed, takes a bus to get her to her friend’s house so she can get to school on time. He comes home, does his homework, cleans up the house and goes to his own school. He comes home and on several nights a week, cooks me dinner, makes me tea and lets me lay on him and soak up comfort. He holds me when I cry and he tells my daughter how much he loves her even when she’s kicking him and telling him she wants to punch him in the throat. When you ask him why he does this, he looks at you blankly and blinks. “I love them and I want Lily to grow up right”; as though you are clearly an idiot for asking such an obvious question. (Vulcan)

 I have worried that Pinkone and I are holding him back from something, making his life more difficult, keeping him from finding lusty co-eds to satisfy his carnal desires and allow him the typical college experience. Then, I found his notebook. It was open to a page labeled 1, 5 and 10 year plans. Under each of these headings he listed his goals, goals that were not only his, but mine. He included Lily and me in his goals, his life plan. I cried a little. This is something her father was never willing to do. He had no life plan and seeing that someone who had no biological or legal ties to either of us was so willing to do so...I knew then that this guy, my best friend, was also my partner. Whatever that means. We are in it together, for better or worse.

 In large part because of Jon, and also because of the other fantastic friends I have made and re-connected with over the last 6 months I am coming into 28 feeling more whole than I have ever felt in my life. I am living in a state of attached freedom, and I am committed to the life that Jon, Lily and I are building as a family. I am committed to expanding my mind and my talents and using them to better my family’s circumstances. I am committed to getting to know myself and doing things that are good for me, rather than convenient for others. I am committed to doing 28 a hell of a lot better than I did 27.

 So, happy birthday to me, instead of sexy parties, this year we will be seeing Harry Potter (for the second time) and having dinner with my sisters. Decidedly less exciting but something the real, 28 year old me is looking forward to more than any filthy party and lap dance combination.

 I have loved, I have lost. I have made friends and lost friends in this last year. I have lost myself, and began the process of re-discovering who I really am, and who I want to be.  Best of all, I have given my daughter and myself, a chance to thrive in a clean "house", with a family that wants nothing more than to be together and to be happy.

Vulcan, you stink and I love you.

Santa-pa-looza

Twas the Night Before Christmas and all through the house
The Pinkone was running around like a twacked out lab mouse
The cookies she laid out in rapid succession
Hoping that eggnog would erase her latest transgression

The aunties and MiMi goaded her on
Loving her panic and her stressed cranky mom
She tracked Santa on NORAD and Google earth too
Having only an hour she knew what to do

When Shay Shay announced that Santa was near
Pinkone Jumped up, her eyes filled with fear
Away to the bedroom she flew like a flash
She gave hugs and kisses and a smack on the ass

Her eyes squeezed shut tight she asked me with fear
Mom, does Santa know I really tried to be good this year?
Pinkone, I said my heart growing full
Santa knows on the inside you have a good soul

But will a good soul get me my sled?
Oh shit thought mommy, I think I’m dead
For no mention of sleds had been whispered to me
And a whole different gift would be under the tree

Uh, Pinkone, I said attempting no stammer
What happens if Santa couldn’t make a sled with his hammer?
“Then I will be angry” she said with conviction
“so, nothing else will meet your predilection?”

“Nope, nothing” she said as she drifted to sleep
And mom uttered the F-bomb and began to weep
So off the to the Wal-mart she flew in a flash
with all other moms on the last minute dash

And there I did paw through bin after bin
Not a sled could be found much to my chagrin
A saleslady looked fearful as I approached in a panic
This Christmas was sinking like Leo in Titanic

I wandered on home my head hung with shame
This whole endeavor was incredibly lame
Santa had failed or so I freared
Would Pinkone give up and be naughty all year?

The next morning she rose, her eyes all a twinkle
The bells on her jammies lightly did jingle
She walked down the stairs, her sled she looked for
she peeked round the fireplace, the bathroom and door



 When no sled she did spy her face it did fall
Until she saw presents stacked high up the wall
“Are those all for ME?” She asked with shock on her face
“Mom there are presents all OVER the place!”

She smiled wide and looked directly at me
“Santa did know, he really did see”
“I tried to be good and he saw my soul
I worked super hard and I reached my goal”

So sled or no sled, Pinkone was happy
Santa had listened and though her behavior was crappy
He saw that she’d tried and cut her some slack
and for the whole morning she gave me no flack

Pinkone was great and her Christmas was too
Mommy was stoked with no discipline to do
As she climbed in bed she hugged me tight
“Happy Christmas Mommy, and have a good-night!”



Gifts, of a Spiritual Nature

I am spending my morning trapped in a cubicle bunkered down with my IPOD and a huge sheet of claims to slug through. The beauty of my IPOD is that is allows me to watch movies, which makes my day just a tiny bit more bearable. Currently, I am indulging my love for Christmas movies and watching Four Christmases with Vince Vaughn and Reese Witherspoon. This movie is ridiculous, but one scene in particular inspired me this morning.

The scene I’m talking about is when the staring couple is visiting with Reese’s mom and sister and aunts in the, “cougar den”. The mother is now dating a pastor at a local “Hip Christian” church and at his urging has decided to do away with the “commercial trappings of Christmas” and speak to the “spiritual gifts” they want for one and other. So, this whole scene is acctually rather silly, especially the part where the 80 something year old Gram Gram offers her husband the spiritual gift of “pleasuring Milt more often with my hand and with my mouth”. That never ceases to amuse me.

The point of this description is that I want to take this particular blog post as an opportunity to offer up some “spiritual gifts” of my own to those in my life and surrounding it. This is a rough year for my family, as you all are aware at this point, and I am certainly not the only one that could benefit from some gifts of the spirit this holiday.

To my daughter the pink headed weirdo:

I gift you with a sense of whimsy. Take life lightly Pinkone, its not all so serious. Why worry so much about vampires and wereostritches when there is magic everywhere? I gift you with strength. I want you to see the women in your life and the strength that they have to meet every challenge head on and plow through. You are coming from a long line of strong, bawdy, noisy women that will be there to hold you up through all of life’s challenges. I love you, we are a team kid.

To my 3 best lady friends, who are each battling their own particular demons:

I gift the three of you with clarity. I want all three of you to see your goals and your lives clearly. Find peace as you move forward and seek out answers to your personal questions. Know that I am with you through every step of the journey and will be there when you need a leg up. Cari, Shelli, Tera; I love you all.

To my Mommy friends:

I gift you with patience and the knowledge that you are doing a great job, no matter how little you feel it sometimes. If only there were some award show that once yearly gave every mom a lifetime achievement award. Everything about mothering is hard and most of it is thankless and kind of gross. But we do it, everyday and take joy in it most of the time. For all of you, thank you for raising the next generation and you are doing a great job.

To all of us in the blog-o-verse:

I gift you all with inspiration and bloggy goodness for the new year! Blogging is therapeutic and sometimes feels tedious and even selfish (at least it does to me) but if you all are anything like me, it keeps you sane. Use your gifts and share them with the world! I hope all of you find many fun, funny, and fascinating things to blog about and share with the rest of us over the next 12 months.

To Myself:

I am gifting myself with the gift of perspective and care this year. I am allowing myself the ability to see things clearly and find out where they fit in my new life. I give myself permission to go to the doctor, to eat healthy and to work out. Taking care of myself does not mean I am being selfish, and taking care of others needs to come second. This year I will get my ducks in a row, so to speak, and actualize my priorities. I will move forward and I will be strong. I am also giving myself the gift of a punching bag...becuase everybody just needs to hit something sometimes.

What kind of "spirtiual gifts" would you offer your people blog-o-verse?

Merry Christmas, Happy Chanukah, Joyous Kwanza and Satisfactory Non-Denominational Winter Solstice Celebration to all of you! 

Dear Santa

Well, last posting we discussed how Mediocre Mama is dealing with Christmas and all the changes in her little life. This time, we will discuss The Pinkone and her particular challenges this holiday.

She is doing surprisingly well with not having Dude around this year. There was a brief crying drag surrounding the discovery of his stocking and me not putting it up with the rest of our stockings. Other than that, she's been in cookie eating, cheer making heaven.

The one dark spot in her parade of holiday joy is that ever-present, ever watchful, bearded voyeur, Santa.

Santa is causing Pinkone some major grief this year. Mommy is lucky enough to be a close, personal friend of Santa and she happens to have his number on speed dial.

Because Pinkone has had such a hard time this year with certain behavior related areas (NOT punching Jon in the stomach for eating the last cookie for instance) she is now living in fear that Santa will judge her harshly for her crimes.

The "Santa threat" has been used a couple of times to quelch bad behavior in the past. During a particularly challenging potty training episode, Santa gave a ring and talked to her about the importance of potty training and listening to Mommy. Pinkone replied to his call with awed silence and trepidation. She then begged me to send him the following photo:



Santa rewarded her effort with a plastic kitchen set and other pieces of molded plastic that have since gone missing. The Santa threat worked.

Fast forward to this year. There has been some punching, some yelling, the occasional terrorist threat to the pentagon, its time for Santa to get involved.

During our ever so festive tree decorating extravaganza not too long ago, there was a bit of a meltdown surrounding placement of particularly sentimental ornaments. Mommy wanted them placed sporadically around the tree in pleasing patterns, Pinkone wanted them all in a clump at the bottom of the tree where the dog could see them.

After 15 minutes of screaming, one bought of "I hate you!" and mommy vowing to cancel Christmas and take up being a Jehovah's Witness out of spite, the phone rang. It was "The Big Guy", who sounds strikingly like Jon on the phone. She took his call, nodding with a grave look on her face as he explained the ins and outs of the naughty list and how one may come to find herself on said list. She swore her allegience to him and her compliance to Mommy and promised she would never again demand to be supreme overlord of the gingerbread house.

Her behavior was somber and grim, but the tree was trimmed, and the evening continued without incident. Throughout the week, she would flare up, her temper rising and the pink hair turning red with fury. Coincidentally, each time that phone would ring her behavior would suddenly change for the better and all fury would diminish as she ran with a flash from the room. The choir of demons welling up behind her ceases and peace is once again restored to the land.

Jon asked her this morning if she would like to go and see a Santa Clause, a yearly tradition most children enjoy.

 Her response: "No freaking way!"  accompanied by running in to the next room.

When asked why she doesn't want to see Santa, Pinkone replied that she wasn't looking forward to explaining her behavior to him. We consoled her and said that Santa understands how hard it can be to behave sometimes, and that Santa is really just looking out for her best interests when watching her.

She pondered this for sometime, nodding along as we made out points. When asked once again if she would like to reconsider and go see Santa today, putting in her bid for a place on the nice list;

 Her response:  "nope, not going to risk it".