Sunday, April 30, 2006

at 4 a.m.

While it isn't official yet, so let's not get all excited and shit...

I was "recommended by Department" for the PhD program at McGill.

So here I am, having a panic attack at 4 a.m. - cause now the game is on. For real.

and Thanks - yesterday was my birthday. I'm 36. Having a panic attack at 4 a.m.


My Pukey Puppy

Saturday, April 29, 2006

Vacation highlight:

You are sitting by the pool after a long day of Park wrangling. Your child is showing off for her best friend. She takes in too much pool water. She gags. She vomits. In one of the two resort pools.

This means the pool has to be shut down to be de-pukified and cleaned for 24 hours.
You sense that the resort management isn't thrilled. You finish your margarita in your room.

"Please don't puke in the pool" enters your lexicon of phrases you never thought you would say.

Dios Mio!

Friday, April 28, 2006

Greetings all. Today is the last day of my vacation in the Unholy Mecca.

At last count, it takes this much alcohol to get 4 adults through 7 days in Disney with three children ages 7 (girl), 7(girl - best friend) and 4.5 (younger brother of best friend):

14 Mojitos (large)
16 Margaritas (various flavors)
1 Rum runner
1 Cuban Hurricane
20 Newcastle Brown Ale's
2 Jack Daniels on the rocks
1 Heiniken
2 Beer samplers from a brew pub here

I may have missed a few, but as you can see we may have lost count on a few of the drinks...and we plan on having some more tonight before packing.

To tempt you for the upcoming "unfortunate fashion choices of Disney", I will give you a sample of Emily and I posing with our appropriate footwear. I actually waited for these Merrill sandals to come out in the store after seeing them in the catalog -and Emily is in her sensible Kids Teva's. These Merrill's hid in the trunk of my car until the night before we flew down, so I could make it seem as if I had always had them.

Ladies, remember to teach your child that they shouldn't point and yell "Hey Mama - there are some for you to take pictures of!" as she walks about in the theme parks. Discretion in our snarkiness - Please! And if that doesn't work, run and hide behind the black guy you're with.

Do two dont's make a do?

Thursday, April 27, 2006

These are two phrases which have had an abundance of use this week:

"Don't Lick THAT!"


"Don't drink that Water!!"

I will leave the rest to your imaginations.

An editorial admission from the very white girl

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

It has come to my attention that I have recently printed less than accurate information. We here at balefulregards want to only bring you the highest level of journalistic integrity, so in an effort to maintain full disclosure, it seems as if I was incorrect.

This error revolves around my "Numero Uno for "How to make a shank"" post.

While I remain Numero Uno for those search term, I have been leading readers astray. During a rather alcohol soaked discussion, I was informed that one does not "make" a shank. That I was revealing my very white upbringing by using these terms incorrectly and that as the wife of a black man, I must make amends and correct this information.

One makes a "Shiv". Apparently the device used to stab someone in prison is a "shiv". The act of stabbing someone with the "shiv" is " shanking" or "to shank".

Noun = "shiv"
Verb = "shank"

So, searchers for the "shank" - you are incorrect. You are looking for how to make a "shiv". You are, in point of fact, looking to "shank" someone with a "shiv".

Again, for all shanking information, I would direct you to the Fox network show "Prison Break". Someone gets it at least every week - or go rent the HBO series "OZ". In a freaky conincidence of fate, we saw the gentleman who plays the cell mate "Sucre" out at Universal with his family.

And so I leave you, enlightened.

Pssst, over here - do you see me sneaking off to blog?

Sunday, April 23, 2006

Boy, do I feel like a complete and total weak ass for not being able to take more than 4 days off from a computer. Like a freaking crack addict. Like Whitney Houston looking for her next score. I am running from place to place to see if any computers are to be had - anyone? anyone?

So yes. I am here in the Unholy Mecca. Children are tired and hot - and whiny. More than one threat was uttered today:

For example:

"Do you realize how much money we spent getting you here? What do you MEAN you want an ice cream?"

"If you stand in front of a fountain, you just have to deal with being wet. You may not take off your clothes here and if you try, I will have to beat your ass."

"If you don't eat all of that $5.00 muffin, you'll be mighty hungry, cause you aren't getting anything else - ever"

Egad. I swear if they walked through the parks serving wine, the whole place would be a hell of a lot more relaxed. I suspect they would make more money too, although the terrorist jihad of small children can break down the strongest adult.

I am collecting lots of photos of the god-awful outfits. Wow. Some have surpassed my wildest expectations. I'd also like to talk about the resurgence of the fanny pack - but acting more as a "front butt" on the large folks of the world? Please, don't accentuate your gut - with another level of protrusion. Believe me, I am an expert gut-hider. You do not bring attention to the gut!

And ladies. If you are a 40-50 year old woman, and want to wear a tube top - and are over a size 12 - please don't be tempted to rent the convertible PT cruiser. The whole thing just isn't cool. Just not cool.

I'll check in again, cause I'm a blog whore and can't stay away....

Fear me, Puny Mortals

Thursday, April 20, 2006

Ah, yes. Have you come looking for the woman? No, I have not impaled her, though she
sorely deserves it as of late. All that moping and whining. In my time, she would have met a most painful and unfortunate end. She has deserted you pathetic humans. Was she going on an honorable "defile a thousand virgins tour?" No. Perhaps a "lay waste to all fertile land and crops" crusade. Sadly, no.

"A Vacation", she said. I threatened her with my sharpened stick and asked for more information. "Someplace warm", she said. "A place that young children love, and will devour my money in an inhuman manner."

What? Vlad is intrigued. Devouring? Inhuman? Perhaps the female can be allowed to take this vacation, as long as she promises to damage something, somewhere. Yes, the female assures Vlad. She will wreak havoc in her wake. She will lay waste to Uber-Mom's. She will mock and photograph the ridiculous footwear she witnesses. She may have several drinks by the side of a pool with the mother of her spawn's best friend. Yes, for she revealed that she and her Spawn's best friends family are traveling together on this "vacation". And that the Spawn, and best friend of Spawn DO NOT KNOW that they are 1. Traveling to this unholy Mecca, nor 2. Going to be spending the week together, for the mothers have kept all knowledge from their most foul offspring. The female breeders fully expect their spawn's heads to pop open and small demons emerge when they grasp the fullness of the plan.

So, the woman has left me to guard the blog. She has also left some links to old stories to amuse you. Which is lucky, cause if it was up to me, I'd cut all your tongues out. And don't read them all at once. She's going to be gone a LONG time. Unless she can find a computer, but she doubts it.

Dawn hates school secretaries

My venture into Rock Opera

Nothing is sacred

Dawn chases the ice cream truck, while drunk

In which Dawn reveals the real reason she works

Emily is the Master Ninja

This needs no other introduction

The Sperm Washcloth

Turn your head and Cough

Ok, so not everyone in my profession is a genius

She would KICK Osama's Ass

Why I tolerate the trailer park kids

Her future lies in being a Dominatrix, I fear

Ever Graceful

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Geesh, I feel like I need to give you all some kind of payback for tolerating my wallow the past few days.

What can I do? What can I do?

There must be some kind of funny story I can tell you that will illuminate yet another piece of the hilarity that is DAWN.

Chasing the ice cream truck after drinking a pitcher of sangria? Nope, you’ve heard it.
Getting stuck in the mud at the trailer home front yard? Nah, it’s been told.
Letting my roommate use a washcloth full of semen to wash her face? Old news.
Flashing my bodacious ta-tas to the 9 year old neighbor after failing to execute an underwater back flip? Been there, done that.

Ah, here is something.

I am clumsy.

Terribly, Terribly clumsy. If you can fall off of it – I have. Spectacularly. I am the person who falls down the stairs, off the bleachers, out of windows…(well maybe not that one, but you get my point – and I still have time)

In college, I lived next to a Physical therapy student, which was my good fortune, because she had to wrap my swollen ankles every weekend after I had fallen down, off, over or around things. Every weekend she would say “How did you DO this?” I would smile and shrug.

In college, I could say it was the vast quantity of the Black Raspberry wine coolers I was downing, or the Thunderbird later in the evening. But sadly, that doesn’t explain it all. When I was 12, I fell off the top of the bleachers at camp. I have fallen out of moving vehicles as they have turned corners. I am like a one woman prat fall show.

In 1997, I tripped while trying to secure the door in the child care center. I was preventing a disturbed boy from leaving the building. He was fast. So I tripped and hit the flagpole with my knee – and bashed my head into the wall. I think I whacked myself out a bit, cause when I did the internal “All systems check” that I do after every fall, I knew something was amiss. Now because I hurt myself so frequently, I don’t yell and carry on. So there I was, lying on the floor in the corner of the child care center. I am the Director.

Suddenly I hear a noise. A gasp, really. I know better than to move. The infant teacher was leaving for the day and happened to hear me breathing. She peeks in around the door and says “Dawn?” She comes closer. I turn my head to look at her. She leans down and yells “HOLY SHIT!”

Now this is a woman who is very calm. This is a building full of children. We don’t just yell “Holy shit” for no good reason. I haven’t seen the damage yet, but her expression does not bode well. Her daughter comes up behind her and says “Mommy, is she going to die?”

WHAT? WHAT? DIE? HOLY SHIT INDEED! Is there a bone sticking out? Has my liver fallen onto the floor? I say nothing and stare – hard- at the teacher. She regains her composure and says to another teacher walking by “Go get some towels – NOW.” She rolls me over and begins assessing the damage. She tells me not to look. Uh-oh.

I have torn open my knee…big time. I hit the metal edge of the flagpole stand when I went down and just opened it up. I’m pretty sure the bone was exposed, but they wouldn’t let me see. I also had quite an egg on my head from where I hit the wall. They had to carry me out of the child care center. It was pathetic. I got A LOT of stitches that day, and subsequently decided that I wanted to have a baby as I was laying on that table being repaired.

About two year later, in that same room, I fell off the stage while making a speech to the parents who had come to the “kindergarten graduation.” Just a mis-step and I went down three stairs to the floor. To my credit, I did jump up, ala Molly Shannon’s “Superstar”, and yell “I’M OK!”

A year later, I was doing laundry in my basement. Everything in our basement are on pallets- cause it floods, so I have to climb up an old “Step aerobics” step to thrown the laundry into the washer. (See? Right there? Money well spent on the aerobics step!) I go to step backwards to grab more laundry and miss the step. I twist and fall into a box of metal “closet organizer” stuff that some friends had given us when they moved. And I mean FALL IN. I’m pretty sure I’ve self impaled something. I try to call “help”, but I am in the basement and no one can hear me. I wonder how many hours it will take me to bleed to death in the box of closet organization materials – or when Terrance will think maybe he should find out where I’ve gone. This is dicey, since if he is involved in some sports game, or reading papers, or looking at the Internet, I could be alone for a very long time indeed.

After about a half an hour of lying there, amidst the twisted burning wreckage *, I decided to try to push up. I crawl out of the basement, and limp upstairs. I then bitch Terrance all the hell out for allowing me to practically DIE in the basement. Cause it was his fault.

This winter I fell down the stairs at work, dropping both cups of coffee. 48 ounces of coffee…gone. I think I cried. And the one time I tried to ski? Egad.

So don’t be surprised when I wipe it at BlogHer. It’s inevitable.

* Props to whomever identifies this reference

I am such a sell out

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Now that you have heard my fanfare, we have a little announcement here at Balefulregards.

Despite warnings to the contrary, certain "attention" has been brought to bear on this blog.

We thought that with the references to clubbing my child like a "baby seal", or the child rearing advice of Vlad the Impaler, we were sure to attract a very specific clientele and - dare we hope it- fan base. This fan base would laugh as I am blinded by my child who presses a blue ultra violet light to my sleeping eyeball, and then refer to her as channeling "Mengele". Maybe my offer to shank Santa, or turn the Easter bunny into rabbit stew drew you here?

No? That not your thing? Do you come here for the witty repartee between my spouse and I including, but not limited to "Don't fuck with me!" Was it my obscure references to 19th century literature? My unlimited use of expletives? My love of all things Hobbit?

Well apparently, it did not scare the folks at ClubMom. I had perused their site and thought "Oh, they are Sooooooo not going to look at my shizit - this is where the Uber-Mom's hang out.". I also sent my application in a day late - but I had an excellent, I did. Really.

But today I got the email. I have been CHOSEN as one of the ClubMom Bloggers. This leads me to two separate and distinct conclusions.

1. Nobody at ClubMom read my blog and/or application and they have NO idea about my style of writing.

or the more likely (in my mind)

2. They liked what I write and are trying to expand their audience to the "real parents" of the world - the ones like me - and you. I got no tips for how to turn cupcakes into replicas of dinosaur eggs. I make no homemade cards, or do crafty projects. But I will call it how I see it. Cause these people are going to PAY me to do this. I was perfectly happy to give it away for free, but here they came and made it all legit and shit.

So, my interpretive dancers will take you out as I ponder the weird shit that flows through this universe and that the gifts come in all shapes and sizes.

Wallow no more

Well. I think it is just about over. I have said the things I needed to say. I have cried the tears that were long overdue. I have asked for and recieved the truth of the situation. I have clarified and clarified again.

Having someone tell you there are "no strings attached" is an untruth. You all know it and so do I. Hell, I've even used this particular untruth to get me in the proverbial door for my own less than honorable intentions. There are always strings. The problem comes when the strings that you forgot were there re-appear. You find yourself twisted and contorted, trying to make sense of where all of this came from and what to do now.

The strings start tugging on things you had forgotten about and suddenly you are at a place and time you thought was gone forever.

But that is over. I had drinks with a friend tonight and she listened and made me laugh.

Shadow limb

There is a misconception, I think, that all pain is bad and to be avoided at all costs. While I am not a masochist (on most days), I try to be aware of what emotional issues cause that dull thud to reverberate through my body. What causes me to want to get in my car and drive as far as I can, and then get out and walk further?

I have read that amputees can feel their “shadow limbs”. I believe that we have the ability to feel “emotional shadow pain.” Until we open and cleanse old wounds, the shadow pain returns and recalls the source of the original wound. In doing so, the pain revives and begins to throb again.

Pain is not bad. Children are born through a great deal of pain on the parts of their mothers. It is pain for a purpose, an end, or a beginning.

Yesterday I wrote about truth. Today I write about pain. We spend so much time trying to shelter ourselves and others from pain that we forget that there is a rationale for this emotion.

“I don’t want to be cruel”, “I don’t want to cause you any more pain” are phrases that are often used. Those sentiments are off base, however. No one can make you feel anything that you aren’t feeling. Another human being is not responsible for my emotions, nor can they cause me to feel or not feel anything. To take ownership of your own pain is something that many people are reluctant to do, or unaware that they can control.

But I do. I claim my pain as my own. This is my own doing – no one else’s. I asked for the truth and I got it. The residual pain of the truth is cathartic, in its own way. It allows me to scrape away old scare tissue and reveal the pink skin of healthy emotions underneath. It allows me to cry and rid myself of old toxins – things that have been stored for years, from other times. Now I will smooth ointment over the wound and let it heal properly, with no shadows underneath.

As I gave thanks for truth, I give thanks for pain. Not because I enjoy it, but because I know that my growth depends on my ability to manage this and learn the important lessons it has to teach me.


Monday, April 17, 2006

I was given a gift today.

The gift wasn’t unexpected, nor was it planned. The gift was, I suppose, inevitable. I cried when I received the gift. Not right away. I don’t like to cry in front of people. I waited until I was driving to work to let out the tears. Hot and salty, smearing my eyeliner as I drove the route to work.

It was a gift that I had been asking for, and dreading receiving. Like a tetanus shot, you know it is what you need, and yet, it is going to hurt like hell – and you know it. I no longer have anyone to tell me it won’t hurt. You relinquish that comfort when you become an adult.

My gift today was truth. While I thank the friend who brought me that truth, I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t say that a little part of me died when receiving that gift. Truth is the only thing that must be exactly what it is. We can each bend it or spin it into figurines that shape around the other parts of our lives, but when the day is quiet, and you really look, you can see that we are looking at made up stories – figments of nothing.

I have driven myself to live the truth for a long time now. Not to form it into something else, but to hold it in what ever form it came and adjust myself to it’s shape. I was malleable, the truth was not.

Recently, I consciously turned away from that. Whether driven by fear, or cowardice or something else I can’t yet name, I shut my eyes to the truth. I made up stories that suited me better. I indulged myself. I knew better, and did it anyway.

Truth doesn’t tolerate that for long, I have found. Being told what you need to hear is a double-edged sword. Cutting as it slides in, cutting as it slides out. The wound, while painful, is clean and will heal. It doesn’t dull the hurt though.

So, I give thanks for the gift. I acknowledge the hurt – however necessary. I know I will heal, for I always do. I shake my head and let the untruths fall like water from my hair. Today I cry. I give thanks for the gift of truth, even as I hate it.

I feel like a little rabbit stew

Sunday, April 16, 2006

6:00 a.m. - First attempt to get me out of bed to look for easter basket.
6:01 a.m. - Unkind words are said regarding both the basket AND the hour of the morning.

6:45 a.m. - Question regarding if "this" is a better time to go out and find the basket is fielded.
6:46 a.m.- Idea rebuffed.

7:00 a.m. - Tactics have changed. Attempts to engender father in campaign to find easter basket. Wakes him up - since he is sleeping on the couch.
7:01 a.m. - He is a bit kinder with the words, and suggests that she find the basket and "Bring it into the bedroom to open with Mommy."
7:02 a.m. - My eyes open and I think some very mean things about my spouse. I believe there are several names silently called as well.
7:03 a.m. - A basket filled with so many things it requires two trips to carry it all in is launched on my lap. Things are being ripped open and shoved under my bleary eyes to admire.I attempt to find my glasses so I can see what I am looking at.I knock them off the table.

7:23 a.m - Four boxes of new playmobil are ripped open and dumped on my barely coherent self. Demands to assemble the "fishing poles" are uttered.
7:24 a.m. - 2nd visit about the "fishing poles". Apparently I an not moving fast enough. Terrance wanders from the living room and sits on the bed next to me. "In other words, you ain't movin fast enough be-yatch."

8:15 a.m. - All Playmobil pirates are assembled. Ahoy Matey. I deliver them to the living room.
8:22 a.m. - I write this post. My hatred for fictional characters is mounting.

I've been infected

Friday, April 14, 2006

Elizabeth tagged me for the “6 Strangest” Meme – so here it is – in all the gruesome glory.

1. I killed a hobo, just to watch him die.
2. I am the illicit love child of Neil Diamond.
3. My car is covered in Magnet decals
4. I say the complete rosary every night and never, ever use foul language
5. I love my giant silicone breasts
6. I feel that the only thing that should be waxed is a car.

No, are you not buying those? Not even the hobo? Or the rosary? I do sing a mean version of “Sweet Caroline” and those of you ( and again - you know who you are) have seen my reaction to a magnet decal on my car, and I guess I have shared my feelings on the "curb appeal" factor of a good trim and wax.

Damn it all to hell. You people are good. Ok. Here are some real ones then.

Six things you most likely don’t know about me, since I never put it on my blog (which is frankly a leetle hard to believe cause I am so, like “guarded” about my life)

1. I detest having hot feet. I must be able to access fresh air at all times, so sleeping bags are torture. Terrance’s ONLY instructions during labor were to keep the nurses from putting anything on my feet. I ain’t kidding. I might have ripped a nurse’s spleen out if they had tried to put those damn booties on me – even as doped up on the morphine as I was. I rarely wear socks. As a footnote ( ha-ha-ha, see me slapping my knee) I have very agile toes and can pick things up with them. I call them my “prehensile feet.” I also spend a lot of time and money keeping my feet pumiced, scrubbed and smooth. There is NO Reason, in the US for any woman to walk around with crusty ass hooves. Seriously. No one is walking twelve miles to fetch water over rocks. Do NOT wear sandals if you haven’t pumiced. Join my crusade.

2. I not only like the shoes, I lurve the shoes. I have a closet full of shoes – in their boxes – labeled by season, color and style. I often buy the same style in multiple colors if I think the shoe is hot enough (the red ones in the photo have companion black ones that are featured in the Bizarro Mommyblogger shirt). I’m a real fan of the mule, and things that strap around my ankle. I also like HIGH heels. If it’s fewer than 2 inches, bah. That’s a sissy shoe and you’re a pussy for wearing it. Unless it is a very expensive sandal. Which I'll forgive. Don't lets talk about the boxes in my trunk.

3. I was a sushi virgin until 2004. My buddies Denise and Leah deflowered me. And I drank a lot of hot saki. I suppose that means I am a hot saki lesbian sushi lover? Speaking of Lesbians… (That gratuitous display was purely for the search hits!)

4. I have attended and LOVED a real Massachusetts Gay Wedding. It was gorgeous and the brides were gorgeous and I cried. I love the photo I have of me with the brides, as Emily thinks it is the shit to have two brides in white gowns at the same time. This was also where a certain photo of me, with the champagne flutes tucked under the bosoms was taken, as well as Me – playing the spoons. Maybe someday these will appear. Only the Shadow knows.

5. Speaking of weddings … someone who knows who she is and I changed the big glowing sign at a wedding from “Congratulations Heather and Stephen” to “Congratulations Heath and Stephen” and we took pictures. I swear I practically pee myself when I see that photo. That was the night that I was photographed as “Bar Fly Barbie”. Hmm, that gives me an idea, perhaps “Bar Fly Barbie” will join Vlad for a Q&A at some point.

6. I once encountered a black bear while walking in Waterville Valley. I was – unfortunately – holding a piece of cheesecake (that wasn’t even MINE, I might add) at the time that the bear came lumbering towards me. I told my two companions that per the Discovery Channel – we should stay very still, and perhaps drop to the ground. I said this as a whisper – out of the side of my mouth – frozen. My companions took off running – leaving me with the bear – which thankfully could have given a rats ass about the cheesecake. But it was a big bear, and it was real close. Apparently my random animal behavior tidbits of knowledge render me useless in the face of a real, live bear.

So what do these things say about me? Go ahead, psychoanalyze me….

"What type of person works here, part 2"

Thursday, April 13, 2006

Recently I got this question:

Why the "balefulregards?”

Here is the origin of this:

See the creature? Yeah. That’s me. 95% of the time. Trying to mind my business without someone poking me with a stick. But look -there they are those damn kids. Coming to put me in a bucket. CURSES! Little Bastards.
Do you see the little shoe charm on the side? It keeps my shoes safe from bad shoe mojo!

And some will recall when I showed you the “What type of person works at this desk” part one. Here is part two. Please note that baby Jesus IS holding an armless mermaid. Yes, That IS “Bad Ass Gum” and let us all hail the glory of the “F is for Fuck” magnet.
The bottles of faux liquor were bought by Robert who paid a very high market rate for such craftsmanship. “Old Master De Fai” is my favorite of them all. It sounds like it is the urine from an old unkempt karate master. The others are hidden around my desk. I don't want to look like a lush or anything. And Oh yeah, Jesus keeps my cubicle sin Stench-free with the fragrance of "altar flowers". I'm going to hell, meet me there?

And here is a side shot – You can see my ever-growing stack of CD’s. I like to rock out while I work. Ok maybe not to the Natalie Merchant CD, but I have all my Ben Folds there…and The Smiths...and well, Ok, maybe not so rockin! Yes, dammit. That is 48 ounces of coffee. I like the coffee. A lot. I drink one in the morning and one in the afternoon. You can also see my authentic Mardi Gras beads hanging on Pooh. And no, I am not answering the question..I'll let you wonder if I showed them or not.

Maybe I will grow the sugar daddy soon, in stop time photography, so we can all get a look at our next husbands…..

Psst - check out over on the side bar...Do you see it? Yeah, it's true. I AM speaking at Blogher.

Not a love song ( AKA the "nipple post")

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Ok, I thought it over and I am putting it back up. There are no nipples mentioned after this point so if you got here for that....Move on. I took this down cause this one made me feel really exposed. Not because I think someone will be mean, but because I cried after I wrote this one. I am not a cryer. I feel that this blog is a kind of promise. To be honest. Always. Honesty is not always comfortable, but is always neccessary. Thanks Internet Friends.


I have been thinking about my ex’s a lot lately. I find that when my life is about to take a major leap, the stir of echoes from the past gets strong.

I sometimes think as you move forward, the need to revisit familiar places gets slightly stronger. Part of leave-taking is imprinting your memories. Ends of relationships are similar times. Tumultuous, intense, sorrowful, joyful – all rolled into one big ball, like being in a giant emotional dryer on “tumble.”

There has never been a romantic relationship that has ended and I have thought ( in hindsight) “Damn, that was supposed to last.” Each one took its winding and specific course to its inevitable ending. Terrance, of course, was different. He wanted no end to “the Dawn show.”

Terrance’s steadiness, and tenacity have been godsends for my less rational fluctuations in mood. His ability to plot a course and guide me through it has been the anchor to which my life has been tied for the past 15 years. I, in return, add the wackiness and humor to our lives. We are the ultimate opposites, but exactly the same.

With Terrance, I found a man who loved my mind, as much as anything I could do for his body. That was a shock and took me a long time to acclimate into my view of what relationships “were”. With all my other partners, I took solace in my sexuality. It was something that I could offer that they could appreciate. If everything else in the relationship was going to hell, sex was always great. As a girl who had emotionally distant fathers, and as a young woman who chose emotionally distant boyfriends, I could be close with sex. It was the intimacy that wasn’t intimate! See me giving, without giving! The drama, the chase, the emotional roller coaster!

Terrance’s insistence on emotional intimacy was scary as hell. I fought him bitterly for the first year we dated. Sex? No problemo, I could do that all day. Emotional intimacy? Jesus Christ! Wasn’t the sex enough? That whole year, I retreated twice a week into my therapists office, trying to understand why this man that I yelled at, hung up on and generally tormented stayed around. Was he a masochist?

A year later, after I had said and done anything I could to drive this man away, my therapist leaned forwards and said, “It’s time to stop fighting, Dawn.”


I suppose it was.

When, as a child you were abused and abandoned by your father, the urge to fight is strong. Learning to suppress that urge to fight – the urge which has lead to your survival, is like learning to talk again. Vulnerability is not an option. The vulnerable ones? They end up dead by their own hand, or damaged beyond repair...victims. You are not a victim.

When your survival has been rooted in giving yourself sexually, but never emotionally, opening that door is scary as hell. There is a little girl behind that door and you promised her that you would never let anything else happen to her. Not without one hell of a fight.

But not this fight. Not with this man.

Terrance wanted everything. All parts of me.

It is not a great romantic love. It is not a sexually charged dynamo. My marriage, however, is everything I needed and much more. I truly have a partner who walks next to me and is committed to our relationship. I love him more than I can say.

So why do the ex.’s walk through my brain during these times? I think it has to do with protective mechanisms. When I have to trust Terrance, when I have to stop fighting – as I do with the move to Montreal- my mind kicks back to other struggles. To men that I was less vulnerable with, with twice the drama. To men who only wanted the sex, with no demands on my emotions, no demands to trust them.

I have to remind myself, “It’s time to stop fighting.” It's Ok to be vulnerable.

Rockin the Suburbs...Sham on

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Some reasons why Today Rocks:

Vanilla Spice is back at Dunkin Donuts! I squealed with joy into the drive up window! Can I tell you how I have missed the cinnamon flavoring? I know, it’s a small thing but GOD it’s delicious!

The Wellbutrin seems to have re-awakened my sex drive. With a vengeance. Either that, or I am hitting my “36 year old woman” peak. At any rate, there are two happy adults in our house. Plus the added freedom of the vasectomy being “lab approved”? I am practically staring at my kid until she falls asleep so I can go and jump on her father. Including lots of innuendos…
Terrance; “I just have to put a little more sauce on the meat” (meaning BBQ)
Dawn: “I got some sauce for your meat.”
Terrance: Shaking head wearily and walking onto porch to grill

I know. It’s like I am a 16-year-old boy.

Emily did her homework last night – without the normal bitching and moaning. PLUS – she got is all right. AND she read the book she chose with no crying. I know. This seems like a small thing, but the battles to get Em to do her homework have been epic. She cries. She whines. She rolls on the floor yelling, “It’s toooooo haaaaardddd.” She does these things until I lose my shit and start yelling at her. (Dawn yell? Never!)
Oh yes. I yell. I take the small face and my hands and say things like “I am not buying this bullshit for one minute. You are smart and you are going to do this work!” It’s a fine line to walk with a child with learning issues, but there is one thing she isn’t – and that’s stupid.

I finally got my passport photo taken. However, I would not let me into any other. Country after seeing that picture. I look like the Runaway Bride with the Crazy eyes and the messed up hair. I also look like I must be on lithium – which may occur some day – but hasn’t happened yet. While Emily tried to assure me that “You look Beau-ti-ful Mama”, Terrance merely choked back a laugh and said “Oh My.”

So here are my eyes – I am smiling, so they are all crinkled up. I have to admit – I love my face more as I get older – lines don’t bother me at all.

The sun is shining in New England. It is opening day at Fenway.

Oh, and Vlad sent the head of a non-believer on a pike over to my house with the message that he will entertain questions this week. So, here’s your chance.

This is what you get instead of the serious post I took down..

Monday, April 10, 2006

Ok, so I took the last post down. I was a little too exposed. And in a Tara Reid's nipple kind of way....

So I will say this. To the person who is finding my blog via the use of my first AND last name in Connecticut. I demand that you reveal yourself to me, for you are freaking the shit out of me on my sitemeter. It isn't as if I am 007 here, but when I find that people are finding me via the first AND last name? Egad. And I'm not talking about the people I have emailed who know my first and last name...and not only my last name but my maiden name cause I didn't change it when I got married. Yep, I'm one of those crazy feminist bitches.

(ease up, I hypenated on my drivers license to pay homage to My penis - then he peed on my shoes and I was forever marked as his)

And the playdate kids? SHOWED UP THIS AFTERNOON! "What?!", you say. Yes. Their father drove them to my house and dropped them off unannounced - on a Monday - at 5:30 p.m. - cause they said they wanted to play with my daughter....WTF???

Apparently I made a playdate with the "Single White Female" of parents and now we are going to be joined as one for all time. GOD!(Said as Napoleon Dynamite)

"No, Honey, Mommy just has to figure this thing out..."

Sunday, April 09, 2006

...Eat a nutri-grain bar - I'll feed you later..."

Four Fucking hours later, I have added a Blogroll. Jesus, maybe I need to re-think the Ph.D., since that was quite that challenge.

and I leave you with a new T-shirt- for the B-list Blogger...

for real, I will make you a t-shirt on any of the selections of shirts available. The shirts are at cost, cause this is purely for my amusement...If you want one in a more "fitted version", email me. I have already been branded as the woman with "inappropriate cleavage" once...

Desperation...and a Smokin' Hot Mama

Saturday, April 08, 2006

Desperation = Inviting the children from the mobile home for a play date because frankly, after two weekends of being alone with your child you have run out of things to talk about which don't involve an expletive.

Consternation = Picking them up at 1:30 and saying "when do you want them home..." and then trying not to look shocked when the family says "We'll pick them up at 7:00."

Accomodation + Exhaustion= Deciding to order Chinese food for everyone, cause dammit, you are not cooking anything.

Contemplation = Can I drink a glass of wine before the family picks them up and NOT look like an alkie? Probably not. Then I guess the 35 year old rum from Guatemala is out too.

Elizabeth Wearing my Apostrophe T-shirt....which I also wore to Walmart today. Lets' just say that no one "got it" at the Walmart.

But Elizabeth is smokin.....

Wriggling off the Hook

Friday, April 07, 2006

Long before I was a parent, I was an Early Childhood Professional. Some may know this profession as “child care”, or “daycare” – but I stuck with term Early Childhood Professional. After all, I had racked up quite a series of student loans to get that Bachelor’s degree from the University of Vermont, and by golly, I was going to work it.

I taught almost all ages at various points in my career. My calling, however, lie with Infants and Toddlers. I kept coming back to this age group. I loved them. I was fabulous with them.

Now, working with a group of 8 to 12 children ages 6 weeks through 18 months could be challenging. I won’t lie. I have been shit and vomited upon in the most clever and unique ways. I have cleaned things from children’s orifices and plucked beans from ears and nostrils. I have administered Ipecac and then held the bucket as the toddler puked her everlasting guts up. I even once rode shotgun to the ER with a bleeding toddler on my lap; from the head wound he acquired after climbing up something unclimbable and dislodging something immoveable.

I watched other people become parents.

While it isn’t widely known, there are actual developmental stages of parenting. Each parent moves through the stages, with each child. If you have a 4 year old and a newborn? Two stages, at the same time. Of course, as we know about children, each parent goes through their development differently.

But here is the secret that I am going to share with you. Closer…..Come here, I want to whisper it to you…

99.99% of the parents were doing fine. Really.

I watched hundreds of couples parent. With almost no exceptions, they were doing fine. Yes, I know what they worried about. I know that they worried that I was judging them, and sometimes I was, for I did not know their pain. I know that they worried that their child would never walk, or never give up the binky, or never eat solid foods, or never win the Nobel peace prize. I watched them compare and contrast their child with the others in the room. I watched them try to bait me into telling them that their child was more or less advanced than someone else’s child. I watched their joy at new teeth, and their exhaustion and pain with teething. The joy of a child becoming a walker, with the pain of the child becoming a walker! The joy of the acquisition of language, then the pain of the incessant “no.”

I watched them develop from insecure parents who weren’t sure about how much their child should eat, to confident parents wrangling toddlers from classroom to car. I watched the cycle start again when they feared their child would never learn to use the toilet, to the confident 4 year old displaying the rudimentary lines of a name.

Of course, as soon as I became a parent, I forgot all of this knowledge. I worried, I obsessed, I fretted. I second-guessed myself constantly. Everything that had worked for other people’s babies didn’t work for my own child. My husband looked at me as the expert. My staff at the child care looked at me as the expert. I was the deer in the headlights. I was the empress with no clothes. I was screwed.

Here, come closer again. I want to make sure you hear this………

Everything is Fine. Your child is who they are. You can not change or modify their basic personality. Nothing you do – sort of serious abusive actions- will damage them. They will succeed at some things and fail at others of their own accord.

No product will make your baby smarter. That is all a load of bullshit. The only thing that affects children is experiences. We are the sum of our experiences. It is how our brains form. Good child care is not damaging your child. They are increasing their experience base. We are social creatures. Children crave other children. Even when they cry and cling to you, they start playing about 5 minutes later. I assure you. Its like the jump that you know you need to take, but are scared to do it. Sometimes the Mama bird has to give the baby bird a nudge.

Parents who are happy are better parents. If that means working, then work. If that means staying home, then stay home. If that means doing part time child care and part time home, then do that. None of the children that I cared for – some now in their mid teens- have stood up, pointed at their parents and yelled “If only you’d not put me in child care – I’d be an Olympic gymnast/best selling author today!.”

People who make parents feel guilty for their choices are self-absorbed assholes. Usually politicians. Or they are trying to sell you a product. Or very insecure other women…who want to have some perverse “motherhood smack down” with you. You know, the Uber-Moms.

Guilt and insecurity are big business. We have swallowed the entire hook, and it is no wonder that it is ripping our guts out.

Now. Stop right here. I want you to think about your happiest childhood moment. Were you outside, playing with friends? Were you alone watching ants or picking dandelions? Or was it learning French with your mother at “Speaking French the Parisian Mommy way” three times a week? No? How about “Baby Physics and Me” classes?

Yeah, I thought so. Me too.

From Ellen Galinsky’s 6 stages of Parenthood:

(Galinsky, 1987)

1 - The Image-Making Stage

During pregnancy, parents "form and re-form images" of the upcoming birth and the changes they anticipate. This is a period of preparation.

2 - The Nurturing Stage

Parents compare image and actual experience during the time from baby's birth to toddler's first use of the word "no" (about age 18 to 24 months). This is a period of attachment and also of questioning. Parents may question their priorities and also how they spend their time.

3 - The Authority Stage

When the child is between 2 years and 4 - 5 years, parents decide "what kind of authority to be." This is a period of developing and setting rules, as well as enforcing them.

4 - The Interpretive Stage

Stretching from the child's preschool years to her approach to adolescence, this stage has the task of interpretation. In this period, parents interpret their own self-concepts as well as their children's. Parents also are concerned with interpreting the world to their children.

5 - The Interdependent Stage

During the child's teen years, families re-visit some of the issues of the Authority Stage, but find new solutions to them as parents form "a new relationship with their almost-adult child."

6 - The Departure Stage

When children leave home, parents evaluate not just their offspring's leave-taking but also the whole of their parenting experience.

Xhaustion - Live it, Love it, Be it

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

Xhaustion – the new fragrance for today’s woman

Xhaustion- for the woman who works full time – in or out of the home

Paris, France- Women cheered as the new fragrance “Xhaustion” was launched. Created by accident when a pan of milk boiled down, burning the bottom of the pan. The pan was left with lemon dish soap to soak in the sink, and later had peaches, applesauce and hotdogs placed inside while the dishes were being rinsed off.

While the fragrances creator is still unknown, the Man who brought the fragrance to market had this to say about his unknown muse. “I am entirely grateful for the fact that who ever this mistress of scent may be, she felt compelled to simply throw the pan out in the garbage. When I walked by that trash can and smelled that aroma, I knew I had a winner,” stated Jean St. Poofda.

Aimed at the woman is so tired she can’t tell her black shoe from her blue shoe, Xhaustion signifies a departure from Jean St Poofda’s earlier, floral based fragrances.
“The Woman who wears Xhaustion projects a sense of inner defeat. She seems to say to those around her “Just eat the fucking cheese doodles and leave me alone.”

When approached on the street, women who smelled Xhaustion were unaware that they smelled anything. “Is there something in this bottle?” asked an unidentified woman, walking by in a broken heel and hunched over with a large, overstuffed purse. Another woman, with a baby in a front carrier, and another in a backpack was heard to say, “What? What? Good God - do you see a binky? I can’t find the binky!!,” before she ran down the street – apparently consumed by the joy of the Xhaustion.

Whether worn for a night falling asleep on the couch while watching “Lost” after eating several Advil Liqui-Gels for your raging headache, or a day filled with attempts to teach your child to speak Japanese phonetically so the other playgroup mothers don’t cast you out, Xhaustion is a very versatile fragrance.

James Lipton says "It is the Most well acted play in the history of MAN!

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

On Saturday Night, I took my daughter to see the 8th grade theatrical production of

For those of you with very young children, reach back into your minds. I know I have a whole crew of band, art and drama geeks out there. The concert, the recitals, the performances…. Are you feeling me?

Oh Yeah.

While it was no “Lion King”, it was a wholly agreeable effort. The kids remembered most of their lines. They were enthusiastic – quite- and the giggling kept was to a minimum. Of course, when the fake beards fell off – we all laughed. Who could resist really? The sight of 13 year old boys trying desperately to keep their melting facial hair on, while delivering lines was priceless. Think “Spamalot”, but not on purpose.

The one kid behind me kept singing the Disney songs to Aladdin, which irritated the piss out of Emily. She kept leaning is to whisper,” It’s not THAT story!”. I am happy to report she is able to sort out that different versions of stories exist, and not all of them come from the Mouse that ate all fairy tales.

But the moment when I saw my future? The bows had been taken, the applause voluminous. The parents and grandparents, friends and relatives had all paid their $3.00 and paid homage to the drama gods. I had privately picked out the future out gay males, and the fag hags who love them. The adults – being versed in the normal ebb and flow of live theatre, started to make the motions of leaving.

Ahhhhh, No. Each 8th grader decided to make impromptu speeches. ALL OF THEM. I began to grip my head in my hands. I had been sitting on gym bleachers for TWO HOURS. Even with my sufficient ass padding, that was an uncomfortable seat. I had a headache and I had to pee. Emily has been berating me quietly, but insistently to buy her something from the PTA bake sale. For the past two hours. I was seconds from running out and kicking over the bake sale table and stuffing their accursed brownies and frosted cookies down their throats.

Now 8th grade speeches? I looked around, trying to find a compatriot adult. Anyone? Could I send a “wrap it up” hand gesture to someone? Anyone? No. All the adults looked enraptured, Little Ben and Tiffany’s big moments! Cameras were flashing like strobes. I worried that any epileptic in the crowd would seize up and fall of the bleachers.
Christ! Don’t these people have places to go?

That’s when I saw it. Every One of my plays, and choral concerts, and band recitals, and every other thing that I had trotted out onto a stage to do. My mother and step-father. Sitting there. Beaming at me, cameras flashing like strobes. Genuine enthusiasm for mediocre acting and so-so flute playing. Their beloved daughter. And they did this for each one of their three kids. Holy Shit. They LOVED us.

I drifted back to the gymnasium.

Emily: “Mama, can I? Can I get a cookie Mama? Just One? A little one with frosting? Mama? Mama? What’s your answer?

Me: “My answer is still No – and when you get to be up on a stage – remember keep it short and sweet – and always thank your mother.”

Heeeeee'ss Baaaaaackkkk

Monday, April 03, 2006

HAH! You puny mortals thought I had gone. I was merely on my “Defile a thousand virgins” spring tour. I am on hiatus until my “Necklace of a thousand and one ears and find the best fried clam roll” summer tour begins.

So what have you weak and insignificant humans have for ME – Vlad the Impaler?

Q. Dear Vlad,

My 4 year old has recently gotten very willful. She even told me that she hated me the other day and slammed the door in my face! What ever shall I do?
“The Worst Mommy in the World – according to my child”

A. Dear Sniveling Female,

Get a grip on yourself woman. My first suggestion would be to tie her to a stake on a hill of fire ants and let them feast upon her obstinate flesh. If that is not an option, than may I suggest that you rip her toenails off and douse her feet with whiskey? No? You Americans make me sick. I suppose if you’re unwilling to punish her in the Vlad the Impaler way, then all I can say is this. It is very normal and appropriate for young children to express these strong feelings. Often “hate” is the best word they have for the frustration and anger that they are feeling. Simultaneously, they understand that as the adult in their life, they are utterly dependant on you for their care and well-being. It is a sign of their growing independence and awareness of autonomy. Now lock her in a cage with hungry rats.


Q. Dear Vlad,

My five year old son has recently taken to peeing in places other than the toilet. The back yard, the school playground, the wall in the bathroom. He then lies to me, and tells me it wasn’t him. He has been potty trained for years. Why would he do this?

Pee Boys Mother

A. Dear Mother of Future King,

Have I met you? Were you part of my “Thousand virgin tour” a few years back? For this sounds as if he is truly the son of my loins. He is marking his territory woman, and you would do well to heed his warnings. Ah, I remember my own boyhood peeing as if it were yesterday – first comes peeing, then the torture with hot pokers, and finally the beheadings. Sigh, your son is sounding like a fine young impaler.

Are you staring at me with incredulity woman? Mother of the pee maker? Am I sensing that you wish to stop this behavior? What is next – a ban on his public masterbation?
Do you not recognize his potential? His inner zest? No?
Ok, well – often when children revert or begin to new behaviors that they know are inappropriate – they are experiencing stress of a change. Is there anything different is his routine? A New teacher? A friend move away? A new baby in the house? When a child feels out of control they will often turn to controlling the only two things they may have complete power over – Eating and Toileting. I would suggest that you speak with your son – making sure that you stress that this is inappropriate behavior and that there will be consequences. He will wash the wall – when he pees on it, for instance. He will loose a privilege or toy. Lay out the consequences and see what happens. If he does it again – make sure you follow through. Little boys find all things genital wildly hilarious. He may have seen another boy or older male relative do this same thing in the woods? Young boys will often emulate older male role models, particularly when it comes to the hysteria of peeing outdoors.
Now, where do you live? I may be by with a DNA test. I sense this child is my seed.


Vlad the Impaler is an occasional contributor to this blog. His renown in the world of early childhood is a well-kept secret. Please don’t make him visit you. His on site consultations are no “Super Nanny and often result in death, mayhem and carnage.

Numero Uno for "How to Make a Shank"

Saturday, April 01, 2006

Dear Internet,

If you have come here for advice as to shank making, you will be sorely disappointed. However, I can't imagine that it is rocket science. Shank making, that is. A handle, a sharpened object? Just watch Prison Break every Monday and you should be able to figure it out. Shit, if a girl from New England can piece it together from a show, I think that you - serious shank maker on a quest - should have no problem.

Now onto you - "crotch smell", "Best way to trim a crotch" and "bush trim" folks. Have you spent any time alone, in your bathroom? These are not questions that I, internet blogger, should have to answer for you. No one took me aside at a "special time" and shared the wisdom of all things Crotch related. If spending 20 minutes alone, in your bathroom naked doesn't solve these mysteries, I suggest that you book a wax at a spa. That should help reveal the mystery.

Excuse me - "Squishy Tummy" people? I am a bit baffled as to why you are typing these words into a search engine. I CLEARLY have no advice for this topic, as my own belly remains squishy. Crunches? Lipo? I have come to acceptance.

Hey Posers. "I am the best"? No, I think not.

For all those who got here via "How mothers feel about incredible kids". 1. I already know you are not a mother. Because mothers feel all things about their kids - all the time. Often at the same time. That's why we look so baffled most of the time. On behalf of all mothers, we want you to know that we were really hip and sexy at one point. Now, however, we can afford great products, so the trade off is there.

And finally Mr "I Love my wife's huge jiggly belly" man. Kudos to you sir. Really. I both admire your commitment to your wife, whilst simultaneously shuddering at the implications that you were searching for other men's wives which to ogle. May I suggest that you emphasize your love to Your wife? Really. I mean Terrance might get a hell of a night out of a statement like that, given the right atmosphere.

Baleful regards,

I use Sitemeter and go to "referrals" to see what search engine phrases have brought people to my site. Most are fine - some make me want to shower....
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