let me just say that this magical universe seems to have its twisted little heart set on stopping me from giving gifts this christmas.
this past weekend J and i decided to take advantage of our visit to vancouver and do some Big City christmas shopping. at the end of the day we emerged from our final stop to find the window in his car smashed and all of our presents, groceries, back packs (including our clothes, toiletries, etc.) gone.
so, in the sort of cavalier moment that shock often inspires in me, i ran into the adjacent alley way to crawl around in the rainy darkness amongst the used needles, condoms, and broken glass behind the dumpsters and under cars. i even, probably very foolishly, woke up a sleeping street person to ask if he knew where my cash box was -- the one i use at all my fairs, and that contained all of my sales records for the year. he didn't.
this messy half-an-hour did yield our clothing and savoury groceries (no sweet ones, interestingly) and my prized cash-box (emptied of cash, of course), but no presents. when i mentioned this to a friend later that evening she said that i must feel so violated, but honestly i don't. i just feel poor, because i can't afford to replace all the gifts.
but the plot thickens! right after being burgled (a word i adore, by the way), j had to go back over to victoria. i went about my business for the next few days in vancouver and even re-purchased some of the less expensive items that had been stolen, and then set out for victoria myself.
i unloaded my many boxes left over from the craft fair i had done onto my dolly, along with all of the new, precious presents, and headed for the ferry terminal when a sudden, invisible bump up-ended the whole cart and the gifts went flying all over the rainy street. a wonderfully helpful, but, it turns out, freakishly iron-fisted old man came running over to help me and happily busied himself with mangling each of my soggy gifts in his crushing paws before cramming them quickly into the box i held. he was very cheerfully and benevolently destructive, though, and heart-breakingly kind to come and help at all, but i give up: everyone gets oranges and fingerknitting in their stocking this year, and that's all.
Thursday, December 23, 2004
Sunday, December 19, 2004
stink bugs
the other day i got an email from our landlords, whose backyard abuts ours, asking us to park our van completely in front of our house, because they find the sight of the three feet of van visible to them through our two backyards obtrusive.
now, our van may be a 1979 dodge, but it's rust-free, and has an even (if bright) yellow coat of new paint, and jaunty blue advertising for J's company. it isn't pretty like, say, a jaguar's pretty, but it's in good repair, and, what's more, it's none of anyone else's business. the street allows for public parking, no permits required. in fact, all the streets in our neighbourhood are the same, meaning that we could, legally, park in front of our landlord's house Every Day of the Year if we felt like it.
we could even park in front of their house, remove the van's tires, prop it up on blocks, and spray-paint: THIS IS OBTRUSIVE on the side of the van in fluorescent paint, legally.
but we will restrain ourselves.
what i want to know is how far landlords' rights extend over their tenants. i mean, my landlady, who is scarcely older than i am, has terrible taste -- in decorating and in shoes (and who knows what else?), so, can i write her an email about it? can i tell her that the colours she has used in her house, that seem verily to jump out at me from across our lawns in the evening through her un-curtained windows, speak to me of an ignorant-suburbanite-recently-come-into -money-trying-to-rise-above-herself-by-following-advice-in-boring- home-decorating-magazines-found-in-grocery-stores, and therefore offend me?
can i tell our other next-door neighbour that his fiance's fake tits don't conform to my values and ask him if he would please turn her around in my presence so i don't have to look at them?
it sounds absurd, of course, but i feel like our landlords are basically asking the same thing of us. the main difference is that we're poor, and they aren't. if we were driving a canary yellow lexus SUV, i doubt they would care where we parked it, and it freaks me out because it makes me feel like they value affluence in others. like maybe even right along with things like honesty, reliability, kindness and generosity -- you know, attributes of good character?
but affluence has nothing to do with character. affluence is not a value.
it gives me the creeps.
i don't know. maybe i'm wrong and that isn't what they're doing. i'd love to be wrong. maybe our landlady was menaced by nightmares involving yellow vans as a child, who knows.
now, our van may be a 1979 dodge, but it's rust-free, and has an even (if bright) yellow coat of new paint, and jaunty blue advertising for J's company. it isn't pretty like, say, a jaguar's pretty, but it's in good repair, and, what's more, it's none of anyone else's business. the street allows for public parking, no permits required. in fact, all the streets in our neighbourhood are the same, meaning that we could, legally, park in front of our landlord's house Every Day of the Year if we felt like it.
we could even park in front of their house, remove the van's tires, prop it up on blocks, and spray-paint: THIS IS OBTRUSIVE on the side of the van in fluorescent paint, legally.
but we will restrain ourselves.
what i want to know is how far landlords' rights extend over their tenants. i mean, my landlady, who is scarcely older than i am, has terrible taste -- in decorating and in shoes (and who knows what else?), so, can i write her an email about it? can i tell her that the colours she has used in her house, that seem verily to jump out at me from across our lawns in the evening through her un-curtained windows, speak to me of an ignorant-suburbanite-recently-come-into -money-trying-to-rise-above-herself-by-following-advice-in-boring- home-decorating-magazines-found-in-grocery-stores, and therefore offend me?
can i tell our other next-door neighbour that his fiance's fake tits don't conform to my values and ask him if he would please turn her around in my presence so i don't have to look at them?
it sounds absurd, of course, but i feel like our landlords are basically asking the same thing of us. the main difference is that we're poor, and they aren't. if we were driving a canary yellow lexus SUV, i doubt they would care where we parked it, and it freaks me out because it makes me feel like they value affluence in others. like maybe even right along with things like honesty, reliability, kindness and generosity -- you know, attributes of good character?
but affluence has nothing to do with character. affluence is not a value.
it gives me the creeps.
i don't know. maybe i'm wrong and that isn't what they're doing. i'd love to be wrong. maybe our landlady was menaced by nightmares involving yellow vans as a child, who knows.
Wednesday, December 08, 2004
mrs. tittlemouse
we just moved into a new house. it's a post war bungalow and it's turning me into a susie-homemaker. i'm on the verge of buying a cake platter and a candy dish.
all i've done since moving in are cook and clean and smile fondly. this morning i made christmas nuts'n'bolts -- and what says '50's housewife' more than savoury recipes involving packaged dry cereal? i think the ghosts of Housewives Past are gently nudging me along with their dustpans. when the step-bug arrived home for lunch today, i had a cheese and (soy) luncheon meat sandwich ready on the table for him along with a bowl of tomato soup from the can.
this morning i also bought a christmas tree, but passed on the opportunity to have it delivered. there was, though, i admit, a moment where i indulged in the fantasy of shopping in heels and a hat -- gloves and pocket book in one hand, pointing at the things i want with the other so that the scurrying grocery boy behind me could grab them and put them in my delivery box.
to redeem myself in my own mind i lugged the tree home by myself, on foot, in a rain storm.
but we're all very interested to see how long this possession of mine will carry on. so far, all the cooking and fussing are a pleasure and don't feel contrived in the least, leading one to wonder if, at last, i've finally found my calling.
mind you, the glass doorknobs, marbled linoleum floor and arborite counters really do make it all easy. easy to hum and scrub, easy to bake and pinch, easy to greet your sweetheart at the door in nothing but an apron and a wink.
all i've done since moving in are cook and clean and smile fondly. this morning i made christmas nuts'n'bolts -- and what says '50's housewife' more than savoury recipes involving packaged dry cereal? i think the ghosts of Housewives Past are gently nudging me along with their dustpans. when the step-bug arrived home for lunch today, i had a cheese and (soy) luncheon meat sandwich ready on the table for him along with a bowl of tomato soup from the can.
this morning i also bought a christmas tree, but passed on the opportunity to have it delivered. there was, though, i admit, a moment where i indulged in the fantasy of shopping in heels and a hat -- gloves and pocket book in one hand, pointing at the things i want with the other so that the scurrying grocery boy behind me could grab them and put them in my delivery box.
to redeem myself in my own mind i lugged the tree home by myself, on foot, in a rain storm.
but we're all very interested to see how long this possession of mine will carry on. so far, all the cooking and fussing are a pleasure and don't feel contrived in the least, leading one to wonder if, at last, i've finally found my calling.
mind you, the glass doorknobs, marbled linoleum floor and arborite counters really do make it all easy. easy to hum and scrub, easy to bake and pinch, easy to greet your sweetheart at the door in nothing but an apron and a wink.
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
attack of the giant insects
i live with a giant.
he was excited about the bathroom mirror when we moved into this house because he could finally see himself without stooping down like usual. and it's true, it must have been hung by a giant like him, because i can only see from the bridge of my nose up (and about two feet of air above my head).
because i didn't see the bottom of my face in such a long time, i finally found out exactly how many pretty black hairs grow out of my chin when left unmolested. it was awesome. (even more awesome was making the discovery in a restaurant bathroom and realising how long i had been walking around like that.)
life for a giant isn't all just fun and games playing tricks on midgets with mirrors, though. J clocks himself on the head with surprising frequency. it's not that he has particularly poor depth perception, or anything, it's just that things often come within one tiny, painful centimetre of being high enough for him, and the rest of us seem to fit in the world so easily that he ambles along hopefully, too, bonking himself in the noggin. poor monkey.
i may not be tall and slim, and i may have a beard, but at least i can't remember the last time i hit my head.
he was excited about the bathroom mirror when we moved into this house because he could finally see himself without stooping down like usual. and it's true, it must have been hung by a giant like him, because i can only see from the bridge of my nose up (and about two feet of air above my head).
because i didn't see the bottom of my face in such a long time, i finally found out exactly how many pretty black hairs grow out of my chin when left unmolested. it was awesome. (even more awesome was making the discovery in a restaurant bathroom and realising how long i had been walking around like that.)
life for a giant isn't all just fun and games playing tricks on midgets with mirrors, though. J clocks himself on the head with surprising frequency. it's not that he has particularly poor depth perception, or anything, it's just that things often come within one tiny, painful centimetre of being high enough for him, and the rest of us seem to fit in the world so easily that he ambles along hopefully, too, bonking himself in the noggin. poor monkey.
i may not be tall and slim, and i may have a beard, but at least i can't remember the last time i hit my head.
Monday, November 15, 2004
my thorax
yesterday a friend told me about a great sale, and, needing casual (but unstained, untorn, wax-free) pants, i trundled along to check it out.
now, i've been in the Bitter Barn with regards to pants for a long time. since puberty, in fact, when i grew a PERFECTLY NORMAL woman bum, acquired a waist, and suddenly discovered that mainstream, accessible clothing was no longer designed to fit me.
what is *with* that?
what is up with designing clothes that don't really fit anyone properly?
i've always liked wearing my pants low. i find it comfy and more flattering since i'm quite high waisted, so you'd think that the frenzy over 'brazilian cut' pants in the last few years would work for me, but it doesn't. it only works for tiny, narrow-but-curvy bums. on everyone else, these pants produce female love handles and an unflattering, square bum. i would know -- i worked in an open-air public market all summer and got to avert my eyes from dozens of teenagers a day, parading around with their baby fat bulging out from underneath this regrettable trend.
well, i won't have it any more. it's beneath my dignity and i've decided that low rise pants have become tiresome and old hat. i've gone the other way. at a vintage store i found and bought this pair of 70's sailor pants which are so crazy high-waisted that compared to some one in low-risers, i look like i have this humungous thorax -- you know, like an ant?
anyway, thorax or not, the sailor pants are workin' for me, and i maintain that if we all try, we can rise above (ha ha) the brazilian cut pants phase and relegate female love handles to where they belong in the dustbin of fashion history.
now, i've been in the Bitter Barn with regards to pants for a long time. since puberty, in fact, when i grew a PERFECTLY NORMAL woman bum, acquired a waist, and suddenly discovered that mainstream, accessible clothing was no longer designed to fit me.
what is *with* that?
what is up with designing clothes that don't really fit anyone properly?
i've always liked wearing my pants low. i find it comfy and more flattering since i'm quite high waisted, so you'd think that the frenzy over 'brazilian cut' pants in the last few years would work for me, but it doesn't. it only works for tiny, narrow-but-curvy bums. on everyone else, these pants produce female love handles and an unflattering, square bum. i would know -- i worked in an open-air public market all summer and got to avert my eyes from dozens of teenagers a day, parading around with their baby fat bulging out from underneath this regrettable trend.
well, i won't have it any more. it's beneath my dignity and i've decided that low rise pants have become tiresome and old hat. i've gone the other way. at a vintage store i found and bought this pair of 70's sailor pants which are so crazy high-waisted that compared to some one in low-risers, i look like i have this humungous thorax -- you know, like an ant?
anyway, thorax or not, the sailor pants are workin' for me, and i maintain that if we all try, we can rise above (ha ha) the brazilian cut pants phase and relegate female love handles to where they belong in the dustbin of fashion history.
Sunday, November 14, 2004
hey, that can is leaking worms!
i found this particular posting to be too whiny and rambling after the fact, so i've removed it.
cheers to all of you who actually slogged through it,
"The Whiny Rambler"
cheers to all of you who actually slogged through it,
"The Whiny Rambler"
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
chicken humping
i had always believed that if a kid was old enough to ask a question, he or she was old enough to hear the answer. now i'm not so sure, what with tv and internet being as they are.
lately our little house has been full of complex issues touched on by some really good questions on the part of the resident ten-year-old. questions like, "if a man looks at porn, does it mean he doesn't love his wife any more?" or, "why would a kid's parents stop talking to him just because he's gay?" or, "is there *really* a phone number in the book you can dial to get a woman to come to your house and massage your wiener?", and "why do people think porn's bad?"
why indeed.
i mean, where do i start? religious conservatism? feminism? police statistics? and how do i broach the subject without giving the impression that nakedness, or sex, are fundamentally dangerous?
we chatted, and, in an effort to keep the conversation within the realm of what he's already aware of, i mentioned that some people's relationship towards sex is unhealthy, for whatever reason. (oopsies.) so he wanted to know what i meant, so i reminded him that some people find children, for example, attractive, and that that, as he knows, it totally inappropriate.
he nodded. (whew!)
then asked, "what else?"
(oh no.)
how do i avoid telling him that there are people in the world who like to hump chickens, without sounding like i'm glossing over something tantalizingly mysterious, dark, dirty, forbidden and perilous? i mean, he has the rest of his life to be a grown up and to avoid, or celebrate, (i suppose) chicken humping. in the meantime, i just don't think he has to know about it.
the problem is, i don't know how to be to make him not wonder how far things go. he craves absolute limits and boundaries. he wants to understand everything -- plus, i think in this case, he wants to have more fodder for pervy schoolyard information swaps with the other kids. i'm really not sure how to handle it.
so, again, if the kids are the ones asking, can you really give them too much information?
lately our little house has been full of complex issues touched on by some really good questions on the part of the resident ten-year-old. questions like, "if a man looks at porn, does it mean he doesn't love his wife any more?" or, "why would a kid's parents stop talking to him just because he's gay?" or, "is there *really* a phone number in the book you can dial to get a woman to come to your house and massage your wiener?", and "why do people think porn's bad?"
why indeed.
i mean, where do i start? religious conservatism? feminism? police statistics? and how do i broach the subject without giving the impression that nakedness, or sex, are fundamentally dangerous?
we chatted, and, in an effort to keep the conversation within the realm of what he's already aware of, i mentioned that some people's relationship towards sex is unhealthy, for whatever reason. (oopsies.) so he wanted to know what i meant, so i reminded him that some people find children, for example, attractive, and that that, as he knows, it totally inappropriate.
he nodded. (whew!)
then asked, "what else?"
(oh no.)
how do i avoid telling him that there are people in the world who like to hump chickens, without sounding like i'm glossing over something tantalizingly mysterious, dark, dirty, forbidden and perilous? i mean, he has the rest of his life to be a grown up and to avoid, or celebrate, (i suppose) chicken humping. in the meantime, i just don't think he has to know about it.
the problem is, i don't know how to be to make him not wonder how far things go. he craves absolute limits and boundaries. he wants to understand everything -- plus, i think in this case, he wants to have more fodder for pervy schoolyard information swaps with the other kids. i'm really not sure how to handle it.
so, again, if the kids are the ones asking, can you really give them too much information?
Saturday, October 02, 2004
fall
miraculously, it has been raining here. it hasn't rained in months so it's really great. all the rain, and the shortening days, have been putting me in a fall mood. the leaves don't turn pretty colours out here like they do on the other side of the country, but it's still nice. i always used to love the hints of fall in the air out east. and then, of course, the actual fall, as well. so colourful and fragrant and zippy. time for fresh starts! time to buy shiny, new, unchewed pencils, and pristine erasers! time to wear wool and corduroy again! whether the leaves underfoot are crunchy or slippery, the air is full of rotten, earthy, mustiness and hints of woodsmoke, and my hair must be free! free to poke me in the eye and get swamped in my chap-sticky lips.
personally, i think i look much better in lots of clothes. this whole 'showing skin' thing doesn't really work for me. i'm so pale and hairy and bumpy in weird places -- like my armpits. who's the pinhead who thought up armpit pimples? anyway, it's always exciting to have an excuse to wear more clothes, i say. i have a pretty green sweater, for instance, that i got last year, calling me from the shelf these days. hopefully it's not moth-eaten.
(i never had a problem with moths before i moved out west. ever. i had no idea what people were talking about. and then i came to BC and found my beautiful wool scarves literally crawling with moth larvae. gross! my roommate had to come and help me dispose of them, because all i could do was jump up and down and squeak. ew.)
the other nice thing about it having been cold and rainy lately is that it meant i didn't have to work (yay!)
i realize that i don't like working very much. i had always wanted to think that if i won the lottery, or married rich, or something, i'd keep working, because it seems more honourable, but really, i have to admit that i wouldn't. i despise having to do anything. (note: i don't despise doing things. i despise doing them when i don't feel like it) i'd much rather just follow my nose and wander around meeting people and seeing things and starting projects and having lunch. and the odd nap. what does this mean? does this mean i lack principles?.
it's time to go for a walk amongst my tree-friends. where's that green sweater?
personally, i think i look much better in lots of clothes. this whole 'showing skin' thing doesn't really work for me. i'm so pale and hairy and bumpy in weird places -- like my armpits. who's the pinhead who thought up armpit pimples? anyway, it's always exciting to have an excuse to wear more clothes, i say. i have a pretty green sweater, for instance, that i got last year, calling me from the shelf these days. hopefully it's not moth-eaten.
(i never had a problem with moths before i moved out west. ever. i had no idea what people were talking about. and then i came to BC and found my beautiful wool scarves literally crawling with moth larvae. gross! my roommate had to come and help me dispose of them, because all i could do was jump up and down and squeak. ew.)
the other nice thing about it having been cold and rainy lately is that it meant i didn't have to work (yay!)
i realize that i don't like working very much. i had always wanted to think that if i won the lottery, or married rich, or something, i'd keep working, because it seems more honourable, but really, i have to admit that i wouldn't. i despise having to do anything. (note: i don't despise doing things. i despise doing them when i don't feel like it) i'd much rather just follow my nose and wander around meeting people and seeing things and starting projects and having lunch. and the odd nap. what does this mean? does this mean i lack principles?.
it's time to go for a walk amongst my tree-friends. where's that green sweater?
Friday, September 17, 2004
Bug Bums
i inadvertently showed my big, white, pimply bum to a group of cruel and unforgiving teenagers recently. it was supposed to be a bonding thing between me and my mum -- jumping off this cliff into the water -- it's just that i had been swimming in a dress (because i left my suit in san diego), without underwear (because it was really hot out), and because the swimming-in-the-dress had gone so well, and it was now so heavy and clingy and long, i didn't think twice about climbing the cliff and jumping off.
so mum and i jumped, and as i was falling and shrieking, i was also forgetting about wind pressure, and my dress, that i had been swimming in, that had felt so securely heavy and long, flew up around my ears and i lost my mystery, as they say.
it makes me laugh to think about it even today, although i can only imagine what the 15 year old boys who were swimming there must have thought about a giant, cellulite-y, 31 year old bum descending on them from on high.
ha!
but this brings me to my topic. i'm getting old and mushy and... strangely 'detachable'. (and no, this doesn't mean that i'm finally realising my dream of becoming a Transformer, or of having removable breasts.)
it isn't enough that i can feel the fat on my lower arms wobble when i wave, or that my neck creases when i turn it, no. each morning i suffer the indignity of rolling up my boobs and folding them neatly into my bra, and you'd think it would stop there, but it doesn't: recently i've become aware that if i sit in a chair and twist around to look behind me, my skeletal frame twists, but my hip fat stays where it is, forming this attractive vertical crease up my side. my fat is no longer willing to perform even the most basic courtesy of following the rest of my body.
it's taking over, and it has a mind of its own.
so mum and i jumped, and as i was falling and shrieking, i was also forgetting about wind pressure, and my dress, that i had been swimming in, that had felt so securely heavy and long, flew up around my ears and i lost my mystery, as they say.
it makes me laugh to think about it even today, although i can only imagine what the 15 year old boys who were swimming there must have thought about a giant, cellulite-y, 31 year old bum descending on them from on high.
ha!
but this brings me to my topic. i'm getting old and mushy and... strangely 'detachable'. (and no, this doesn't mean that i'm finally realising my dream of becoming a Transformer, or of having removable breasts.)
it isn't enough that i can feel the fat on my lower arms wobble when i wave, or that my neck creases when i turn it, no. each morning i suffer the indignity of rolling up my boobs and folding them neatly into my bra, and you'd think it would stop there, but it doesn't: recently i've become aware that if i sit in a chair and twist around to look behind me, my skeletal frame twists, but my hip fat stays where it is, forming this attractive vertical crease up my side. my fat is no longer willing to perform even the most basic courtesy of following the rest of my body.
it's taking over, and it has a mind of its own.
I know you are, but what am I?
there's nothing quite like being backed into a corner by some one 1/3 your age.
j has, whether he knows it or not, stumbled upon all of my issues, and happily pushes all buttons he encounters, presumably just to see what'll happen.
or, at least, that's what it feels like.
it took him a while to find them (these issues of mine), i am pretty easy-going after all, and so there was a brief honeymoon period where i actually harboured illusions that i could masterfully handle this ten-year-old who has, in the past, reduced every single one of my sweetheart's exes to tears.
see, this is the thing: i'm a bright, feminist, young woman with a great sense of humour who can cook really well.
that's just who i am, dammit.
i'm serious, i am!
i am so!
i am!
in confined quarters, there's only so much criticism of her cooking and her (and all women's) mental acuity, that such a gal can stand before she loses all dignity and is reduced to the level of some petulant ten year old herself. it's enough to make one wonder why we ever stopped beating our children.
ha ha.
(ahem.)
*sigh*
but i mean, really -- what recourse do i actually have? there is no other position or career that is more thankless, or more disempowering, than being a relentlessly hassled (step)parent. none of the normal avenues for dealing (avoidance, passive-aggressive backstabbing, fist-fighting, public humiliation, lodging a complaint with the manager, sabotage etc.) are viable options. so, what does a person, who wants to model conscientious, considerate, broadminded behaviour, *do* in the face of the opposite? have frank, open-hearted, compassionate confrontation every second of every freakin' day?? jeeze.
j has, whether he knows it or not, stumbled upon all of my issues, and happily pushes all buttons he encounters, presumably just to see what'll happen.
or, at least, that's what it feels like.
it took him a while to find them (these issues of mine), i am pretty easy-going after all, and so there was a brief honeymoon period where i actually harboured illusions that i could masterfully handle this ten-year-old who has, in the past, reduced every single one of my sweetheart's exes to tears.
see, this is the thing: i'm a bright, feminist, young woman with a great sense of humour who can cook really well.
that's just who i am, dammit.
i'm serious, i am!
i am so!
i am!
in confined quarters, there's only so much criticism of her cooking and her (and all women's) mental acuity, that such a gal can stand before she loses all dignity and is reduced to the level of some petulant ten year old herself. it's enough to make one wonder why we ever stopped beating our children.
ha ha.
(ahem.)
*sigh*
but i mean, really -- what recourse do i actually have? there is no other position or career that is more thankless, or more disempowering, than being a relentlessly hassled (step)parent. none of the normal avenues for dealing (avoidance, passive-aggressive backstabbing, fist-fighting, public humiliation, lodging a complaint with the manager, sabotage etc.) are viable options. so, what does a person, who wants to model conscientious, considerate, broadminded behaviour, *do* in the face of the opposite? have frank, open-hearted, compassionate confrontation every second of every freakin' day?? jeeze.
Tuesday, September 07, 2004
Bug Girl and her Step-Buglett
i'm still playing mum -- it's interesting. i just came back from taking j to his new school (it's the first day!!) and man, nothing has changed. the new kids had to meet in the library so that they could be individually taken to their classrooms (a special form of torture, as far as i'm concerned: taking the new kid in separately after the bell has rung) and the library smells like all libraries and the halls look and feel and smell like all halls. i only went to public school for three years, but it must have been traumatic because as i entered the school this nameless horror crept over me. a wave of insecurity, fear and alienation. nervousness. can i do it? will i have a nice teacher? will i make friends? which kid is going to hate me this time, and how will i deal with it?
i'm happy to report that these feelings diminish only slightly with time and (pseudo)parenthood -- i actually thought about what i was wearing this morning (you know: it has to be yummy, but not sexy, appropriately rumpled to allude to frantic mornings getting kids out of bed on time, but not sloppy. i think my shirt was too tight. it's my big boobs, man: my saving grace and bane all at once). none of the other parents even said, 'hi', but there they all were, in their rumpled banana republic clothes, blond highlights hastily blow-dried to look presentable, but not too finished. woe betide the mum who arrives looking done-up. she appears selfish and bitchy and stupid, and that's all there is to it. there was one there, preternaturally yellow hair ironed perfectly straight, wearing way too much make-up carefully applied, tall and slim in perfect pants and a tight designer denim jacket, clinging to her notions of herself as a head-turner. i could see other mums slide hasty sideways glances at her, and even found myself, i'm sorry to say, imagining her staring at herself in the mirror in the morning, beautifying, while her ignored, unlicked, unfed, cubs bonked into each other in the hallway.
it's good to see that petty third-grade school-yard politics never really disappear.
public school sucks. it's either sink or swim, but i've always been too stubborn (scared?) to be pushed into obvious choices. i'd rather avoid the pool altogether.
i'm happy to report that these feelings diminish only slightly with time and (pseudo)parenthood -- i actually thought about what i was wearing this morning (you know: it has to be yummy, but not sexy, appropriately rumpled to allude to frantic mornings getting kids out of bed on time, but not sloppy. i think my shirt was too tight. it's my big boobs, man: my saving grace and bane all at once). none of the other parents even said, 'hi', but there they all were, in their rumpled banana republic clothes, blond highlights hastily blow-dried to look presentable, but not too finished. woe betide the mum who arrives looking done-up. she appears selfish and bitchy and stupid, and that's all there is to it. there was one there, preternaturally yellow hair ironed perfectly straight, wearing way too much make-up carefully applied, tall and slim in perfect pants and a tight designer denim jacket, clinging to her notions of herself as a head-turner. i could see other mums slide hasty sideways glances at her, and even found myself, i'm sorry to say, imagining her staring at herself in the mirror in the morning, beautifying, while her ignored, unlicked, unfed, cubs bonked into each other in the hallway.
it's good to see that petty third-grade school-yard politics never really disappear.
public school sucks. it's either sink or swim, but i've always been too stubborn (scared?) to be pushed into obvious choices. i'd rather avoid the pool altogether.
Monday, September 06, 2004
Anna and the Insects
once there was a girl named anna who attracted lots of bugs. she wished she attracted other things, because she really liked bunnies and money, for instance, but no, when ever she sat outside for more than a minute all the bugs in the world would begin their slow crawl (or hop or buzz or slither) over to where she was.
the people who liked her said that it must be because she was so sweet, while the people who didn't like her said it was because she probably smelled like garbage. either way, the bugs came.
anna didn't mind visits from the ones that didn't bite or sting, but the mosquitos and wasps made her nervous. shooing them away didn't help.
one day she met a boy she liked and they went for a walk and sat under a tree to talk and look at eachother. anna saw, with sad resignation, that the bugs were starting to arrive. the boy hadn't noticed yet.
'great.' she thought, 'what boy is going to love a girl covered in bugs?' she tried to discreetly flick an ant off her shoulder.
more and more bugs came, especially tiny little black ones. they were beginning to cover her pretty blue top. she pretended she was smoothing her top down while she was really squishing and displacing hundreds of little bugs.
she had to do this often.
she started to wonder if it looked like she was just constantly feeling herself up.
the boy looked at her curiously. she looked back at him and sheepishly told him about the bugs. he squinted and peered down at her shirt and saw that she was indeed covered with the smeared carcasses of hundreds of tiny bugs. he looked around at her back and started to brush the ones off that she couldn't reach. it was the first time he had touched her. soon, he was brushing her back lightly with his hand even though there weren't any bugs left. he rested his forehead on her shoulder. and then she knew: he liked her even though she was covered with bugs.
the end.
the people who liked her said that it must be because she was so sweet, while the people who didn't like her said it was because she probably smelled like garbage. either way, the bugs came.
anna didn't mind visits from the ones that didn't bite or sting, but the mosquitos and wasps made her nervous. shooing them away didn't help.
one day she met a boy she liked and they went for a walk and sat under a tree to talk and look at eachother. anna saw, with sad resignation, that the bugs were starting to arrive. the boy hadn't noticed yet.
'great.' she thought, 'what boy is going to love a girl covered in bugs?' she tried to discreetly flick an ant off her shoulder.
more and more bugs came, especially tiny little black ones. they were beginning to cover her pretty blue top. she pretended she was smoothing her top down while she was really squishing and displacing hundreds of little bugs.
she had to do this often.
she started to wonder if it looked like she was just constantly feeling herself up.
the boy looked at her curiously. she looked back at him and sheepishly told him about the bugs. he squinted and peered down at her shirt and saw that she was indeed covered with the smeared carcasses of hundreds of tiny bugs. he looked around at her back and started to brush the ones off that she couldn't reach. it was the first time he had touched her. soon, he was brushing her back lightly with his hand even though there weren't any bugs left. he rested his forehead on her shoulder. and then she knew: he liked her even though she was covered with bugs.
the end.
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
Face Raisins
the other day, while sitting at this very computer, i scratched my upper lip, only to wake up that all-too-familiar tingling feeling. within minutes i had a gargantuan cold sore.
"what?!" i said, "but i've been taking vitamins!!"
who understands the mysterious workings of the herpes simplex 1 virus. certainly not i. the next day i went to work and watched people struggle with the idea of buying a candle from some one they perceived as DISEASED.
then, the very next morning, i was happy to find, i had started yet another cold sore on the other side of my lip, and i thought, "you know, isn't that just like my virus: ever accommodating, ever mindful of the human eye's need for symmetry. now i look like i have a clark gable moustache made of raisins!"
i'm feeling very pretty.
the older one is a standard raisin, but the newer one is one of those beguiling 'california gold' type raisins. you know, yellow on the outside and soft on the inside?
if i look down, i can actually see them.
but it's kind of good, you know, because jay's away for the week, and it's nice to have the company.
they're so large i'm expecting evolutionary leaps any day now. with luck, they'll discover flight and go somewhere else. i *know* i heard voices coming from my upper lip last night. (mind you, that was after i read up on my virus online, which is always a mistake for me. i get so phobic. did you Know that because the virus lives in a cranial nerve it can also cause encephalitis and meningitis during flare-ups?? is my neck just stiff from watching tv the wrong way, or is that my brain-stem swelling?? ack!! ).
i feel like breakfast now, but my coldsores want to go to the bank.
"what?!" i said, "but i've been taking vitamins!!"
who understands the mysterious workings of the herpes simplex 1 virus. certainly not i. the next day i went to work and watched people struggle with the idea of buying a candle from some one they perceived as DISEASED.
then, the very next morning, i was happy to find, i had started yet another cold sore on the other side of my lip, and i thought, "you know, isn't that just like my virus: ever accommodating, ever mindful of the human eye's need for symmetry. now i look like i have a clark gable moustache made of raisins!"
i'm feeling very pretty.
the older one is a standard raisin, but the newer one is one of those beguiling 'california gold' type raisins. you know, yellow on the outside and soft on the inside?
if i look down, i can actually see them.
but it's kind of good, you know, because jay's away for the week, and it's nice to have the company.
they're so large i'm expecting evolutionary leaps any day now. with luck, they'll discover flight and go somewhere else. i *know* i heard voices coming from my upper lip last night. (mind you, that was after i read up on my virus online, which is always a mistake for me. i get so phobic. did you Know that because the virus lives in a cranial nerve it can also cause encephalitis and meningitis during flare-ups?? is my neck just stiff from watching tv the wrong way, or is that my brain-stem swelling?? ack!! ).
i feel like breakfast now, but my coldsores want to go to the bank.
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