Mini Me

Saturday, June 30, 2007

Me: (In car, driving to get sandwiches)

"So - when I get you a new Daddy - what kind do you want him to be?"

Em (Pauses, looks thoughtfully at the ceiling):

"Nice - he should cook and clean. Buy me things. And have a sense of humor."


"Yeah. This one has no sense of humor. Sorry about that."


"Its all right. The next one will."

Friday Fun....with La Chatte

Friday, June 29, 2007

Oh, I see you there, laying on the bed with that damn camera, waiting for me to look at you.

Let's get something straight. You shave me in February. FEBRUARY IN MONTREAL! What the fuck is wrong with you? Who shaves a cat in FEBRUARY in freaking Montreal?

My fur FINALLY starts to grow back and I look like a deranged rat for two months. Do you know what the other cats say to me? Do you hear the birds mocking me? It is bad enough that I have a stump tail. Oh, Never mind, you silly whore.

Then, with half a fur coat in place, the heat SOARS to 33 C in Montreal. I am left trying to spread my now no longer naked ass as long as possible to try to cool off.
Not that this is any concern of yours, since you routinely mess with me as I try to sleep. Why did you think I would enjoy a fan being directed at me? I ask again, What the fuck is wrong with you?

You know where the irony really kicks in? You adopted me about a year ago. I have now suckered you into buying the organic cat food with the "human quality" ingredients...most of which I refuse to eat. I continue to piss on the stuff of the man, to whom I show my devotion by leaving my love juices on his prized possessions. Yeah, I hear him sputtering about this being the "last time" but I have him by the balls. He will never get rid of me as long as that kid is around...and by my count, she has at least ten more years here - so I am golden.

I'm watching you, bitch. Don't leave any of your beloved shoes on the ground, cause I got something special planned for them. Then we'll see who is funny.

Time to find a new hiding place

Thursday, June 28, 2007

When your newly 9 year old daughter pulls your Rabbit vibrator out of the drawer you THOUGHT you had carefully concealed it in...and says:


Try not to scream.

What I found in my kitchen

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Do you know what that is? Neither did I.

Apparently my husband has wrapped all the fruit in newspaper.

To which I can only shrug and say, "If you insist...."

My husband is weird.

Last Syrah

Tuesday, June 26, 2007

After drinking too much wine on Saturday night, I found myself in the requisite pose.

At which point I thought:

"I really need to clean this toilet"

Nothing like too much wine to point out your shitty housekeeping skillz.

Not your typical mom

Sunday, June 24, 2007

A few weeks ago, I was walking Emily to school.

She was listing her usual litany of complaints. Who she liked. Who she didn't. You know, the usual walking to school conversation.

I reminded her that she needed to go into the after school program, as I had to work in the afternoon.

This prompted a new wave of whining.

"But I don't LIKE to go to the after school....Nobody LIKES me..."

Now, perhaps other Moms might try to puzzle out the who and whys of this statement.

Me? What pearl of wisdom did I have?

"Why not? Did you kill a hobo?"

This shocks my daughter into nervous laughter.

"Kick a puppy? drown a baby bird?"

Her laughter now cascades out of her. Full on belly laughs.

"MAMA! I didn't kill a hobo!"

"Then I guess you can't be all that bad then."

And with that, we held hands and finished the walk to school.

This just in....

Saturday, June 23, 2007

BlogHer '07 I'm<br />Going

Hey Catherine, I might need to catch a ride on the Toronto Party van...

Banque-ing the Monkey

Friday, June 22, 2007

After nearly a year of research, I can safely conclude that Canada is NOT America. It is not in any way, shape or form American-esque. Quebec, in particular, is NOT American, and is barely Canadian some days – depending on who you ask.

As an American, this has been a year of adjustment for me. Sure, I lived on a lake in New England without street lights and a septic tank for that past 14 years. One has to assume that there will be some “Transition” time from New Hampshire, with all its rural glory to Montreal(!!!). Home of Club Super Sexe! And Arcade Fire! And Hockey! And lots of other things that are spoken in French that I do not understand! Oui!!

There are, however, more subtle things that I have noticed.


Yep, you read that correctly. Banking in this country? I am still trying to wrap my head around the banking system. Of course it took me six months before I could open a Canadian bank account, since we had to make sure that my mighty 205 Canadian dollars a week I earned as a TA was not being funneled to a terrorist organization of my choice elsewhere.

And Canada? Has like 5 banks. Which is fine, but the difference between American ATM debit cards and the Canadian “Interac” system is vast. For the first two months, I continued to insist that my American Debit card WAS a Debit card, even though it has a VISA symbol on it. Cause it's connected to my American checking account. Which is not how they do it here. Debit's are Interac and Visa's are Visa's.

So, now that I have a Canadian bank account in which to deposit Canadian cheques and an American bank account in which to deposit American checks, I can further observe the banking system in Quebec.

The main thing I noticed? People use ATM's to do their BANKING. I don't mean "getting 20 bucks out of the ATM" banking, but their BANKING. Major, long term, complicated transactions. Which, as an American, perplexes me. That is what the teller is for. But OH NO. The twelve extra steps into the open bank and up to the teller would rob the Canadian of the opportunity to do their money laundering here, at the ATM. And much like the people who would get to the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru and begin to order bagels with one side toasted with butter, and the other side un-toasted with honey, and a cup of coffee, but with half milk and half cream....I resist the urge to grab the person and scream "THIS IS NOT WHAT THE ATM IS FOR!!!! YOU GET MONEY OUT AND LEAVE!!!"

After a year, I have made some peace with this. I mean, what can I do? Beat the person up? I just make sure my ipod is fully charged before stepping into the ATM line.

However, the other day, I saw something that was...comical. I mean. I started to laugh. Out loud.

I stepped into the line. An elderly gentlemen seemed to be close to completing his transaction. Or at least that is what he wanted me to think. A young woman got into line behind me. This seemed to be the cue for the elderly dude to lose all consciousness of the 20th century. He began pressing buttons and staring at the machine...then reading something, then more button pressing, then more reading.... A door opened and closed. Envelopes were retrieved from mysterious places.

The young woman behind me started making noises of irritation. And then there was more beeping, and more button pushing. I started to laugh. The ATM whirred and seemed to be finishing....BUT NO! There was more banking to be done! It was like a SNL skit that doesn't end, my own personal bottles of beer on the wall. Sung by an out of tune, possibly out of touch with reality elderly gentleman. Who kind of smelled. And we all know how I love to be in enclosed spaces with smelly people.

And, I shit you not, this went on for 20 - TWENTY- minutes. This man stood there and fiddled with the ATM for 20 minutes!!! I have had sex, decent sex, in which both parties were satisfied in LESS time than this mans banking ordeal.

He finally finished. Or at least I thought he had. The machine spit his card out and I forced myself to not grab him by the shoulders and throw him out of the foyer, his ATM card bouncing off his head as I flung it in his general direction.

With the timing of a comedic genius, he lingered. I was mid step towards the ATM. He turned back to face the ATM, checking once again that whatever magical entity was speaking through the machine to him had concluded it's manifesto. I stepped back, embarrassed to be caught trying to bum rush the ATM. Only once I was safely back to the wall, did he turn and S-L-O-W-L-Y walked out the door.

You win, old smelly dude. You win.

Social Pill Bug

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

My husband and child are social creatures. They are attractive and bubbly. They are bright and energetic. They feed off the social energy of a crowd.

Me? I'm that pale, startled looking beetle under the rock. The one who takes off like a bat out of hell when you flip the rock over, trying desperately to find cover. You can practically hear the beetle screaming in a little beetle voice "AAAAAAHHHHHHH!"

Aside from the obvious question of how two such different social styles met, courted and married (Thanks, Alcohol!) this has made our "friendships" as a couple and later as a family difficult.

Recently, Terrance has acquired some friends. I mean, I guess they are my friends too, and goodness knows they are nice people. I like spending time with them. But.... Well. They like to get together much more than I can handle.

This puts Terrance in the awkward position of trying to explain his weird vaguely anti-social wife, who never shows up for anything and doesn't answer the phone...or return phone calls. This, not surprisingly, makes him mad. At me.

For people without this intrinsic discomfort, I suppose it is an impossible thing to understand. NOT like being with people? What's not to like? I mean, you sit there. You talk. You socialize. You have some wine. In fact, I announced to this very group that I needed a great deal of time to recover after each time I am with a group. However announcing this to people who have no idea what you are talking about is like me announcing that I gave birth through my nose. Impossible!

However, I have done something now - twice - that I am both vaguely ashamed of doing, and at the same time wildly defensive about needing to do.

The first time I did it, I blamed the wine. I was tired and just wanted to go home. I git up from the table, gathered Emily and left. I said goodbye to no one. I left, fleeing to the quiet dark of my house, my rock. Terrance must have been told that I did this, for he asked me and I denied it. I was sure I had said goodbye to somebody, hadn't I?

Then last week, I did it again. I am, however, sure that I said I was going home to get Emily's stuff, as she was sleeping over her friends house. Then, the group of parents and kids met me at my door and after I packed her bag and handed her off, I knew I should have gone back to the party...but I couldn't. I mean, I KNEW I should. But I didn't.

The next day Terrance was quite upset. "You snuck off again without saying goodbye Dawn! You are a grown woman! You can't do that!"

I defended myself, knowing what he said was true. I had no real excuse, except that I couldn't go back. I had used up all my social energy in the two hours I had been there. I had nothing left to offer.

I needed to crawl under my rock and recover from the hopped up adrenaline of being with other people. My new skin is still a little fragile.

Can I have a definition?

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

Does blogging empower women?

Well, I suppose that depends on what you mean.

And, as any university academic will tell you, the definition is everything. And, of course, who is doing the defining.

Empowering is one of those terms like my beloved "developmentally appropriate education". It gets easily hijacked and bastardized into something it never was intended to mean. It becomes a tool of condescension, or an excuse for mediocrity. The "Up with People" of terminology, if you will.

If by "empowering" you mean giving a wide variety of women ( and people) a voice with which to speak about the topics on their mind, then Yes. Blogging is clearly empowering. I marvel at the people I have come to know through this medium. People who I had no other earthly reason to encounter, but whom I can not imagine as parts and pieces of my life.

If by "empowering" you mean unleashing a forum in which strangers can attack other people's words, beliefs or thoughts, sending vitriol through the anonymity of the internet - then....yeah, not so good. I love being called a bitch by strangers, or getting the suggestion that my daughter will grow up to be a useless waste of space, just like me. Wow. Very evolved. Very brave.

In the end, I can only define for myself what is "empowered".

Would I be the same person were it not for blogging? Roughly, yes. I think so. My core personality hasn't changed through the act of blogging. It has, however, showed me that I am not as alone as I thought. In the difficulties of marriage or mothering. In my wacky sense of humor and sense of the absurd. In the depths of depression.

As a blogger, I am part of a community. I am not alone.

and that is how I define empowered.


I had a very, very weird dream the other night.

My christ, I am turning into the blog in which I drone on and on about my exciting dreams. What's next? Recipes? Prayer circles? T shirts proclaiming my love for baby jee-sus?

I won't tell you the whole of the bizarre dream except this part. The prominent word of this dream was "Necrotic" - and I said it at least a dozen times IN the dream. During the dream, it seemed perfectly rational that I not only know the word, but was using it in what turned out to be the correct context.

However, upon waking I thought:

1: Where the fuck did I pick up this word?
2: What the fuck was I dreaming about that for?

In the spirit of Feral's Toe post, the weak of stomach should stop reading.

The essence of the dream was that There was bump on my left hand - index finger. I began scratching at it absentmindedly in the dream. As I scratched, the skin peeled away to reveal a long piece of plastic which had become trapped under my skin. It almost looked as if I had left a piece of saran wrap on my finger and it was pale blue and drowned looking.

As I pulled it away, I realized that my whole hand was like this under my skin. Blue-ish. Moist. Necrotic. Which I repeated again and again.

Necrotic. It was almost a comforting word, and I kept saying it over and over in my dream as I peeled the skin from my hand.

Now, I don't dream frequently, but when I do, it is almost always my unconscious smacking me. An old therapist once told me that my dreams were the most archetypal he had ever encountered. Having sat with this one for a few days I think that I am coming to terms with my past year.

I quite literally felt dead inside. Yeah, the skin on the outside was functioning. Everything looked ok - but inside? Nothing going on. Flat lined. Call it depression, call it whatever you want. I took a year long vacation from my life, but not to a sunny island. Nope. I went to the Isle of Shitalot, where I was beaten by humorless albino monks and forced to eat old tuna noodle wiggle. With canned peas. Shudder

Within the past week, it is as if a switch has clicked. I am thinking in stories again. Writing is FLOWING out of me. I want to read blogs. I want to re-design mine.

And with all things necrotic, you have to peel it away before the healthy skin can take it's place. My old skin is shedding.

Separated at Birth?

Monday, June 18, 2007

So, I was cleaning the house the other afternoon...

Yeah, I know - it already sounds like the set up to a bad joke in which the punch line is Michael Jackson.

Anyway, I was cleaning the house and I looked over and saw this. I was immediately consumed with a fit of giggles and ran to get my camera to preserve this bit of comedic wonder.

What was it? you ask yourself....

My first thought? So This was Galileo's name for his penis?

I know. I am a 13 year old boy trapped in a 37 year old woman's body.

Then I read this on Sarah's site. And I laughed harder - cause Cock soup is funny. And SPICY cock soup is funnier. What's the spice I wonder? Is that a Latino Cock soup? Perhaps it is the serrano pepper?

And I totally see why Sarah and I spend so much Time on Desperately...

P.S. Yeah, I am fiddling with the blog. I realized in a blaze of whatever that I have had the same design for over a year and well, that was just I am dusting off my piteous skillz and trying to make this bitch a little livelier. Of course, after spending what felt like a fucking eternity trying to get my blogroll back, I failed to press "save changes"..... So, after some expresso tomorrow I will try again. XO

Gnomes gone wild

Saturday, June 16, 2007

With the kidnapping of the gnome known to his compatriots as "Jerry Falwell" for his rigid right wing views on gnome life style, the other gnomes felt free to let their inner selves out.

After an emergency call to the Fairy Frog Father, the make over was complete....

Sven and Gregor donned pink sparkley hats, opposite coordinating shirt and pants and kicking, "cruelty free" boots

While Augustus went for his own, intensely individual look.

They have poppers in their jerkins, and are ready for some hot gnome on gnome love.

Return of the Produce Porn

Monday, June 11, 2007

To BlogHer or not to BlogHer

Thursday, June 07, 2007

So, I have been thinking about whether or not I am going to Blogher this year, and frankly - I'm torn.

So, let me just throw this out there. Who is going? and is anyone looking for a room mate if I can get my shit together and get there?

Partially this is for selfish "Dawn wants to sit with friends and drink and laugh" reasons - partially for networking. Not a huge deal, but I sold a smidge of syndication for quotes of TWC to Lifetime, and they will feature it on their home page with links back to my site, which should drive the hell out of my numbers for BlogHer Ad revenue.

As my blog(s) are my only source of revenue right now, I admit it. I'm am whorin' it up for the cash.

So, let's here it. Who is in? And TB - no more BlogHer for you, at least not this year. Look what one Sasquatch sighting were pregnant right after.


Tuesday, June 05, 2007

Why hello there, friend(s).

Remember me?

I know - I've been in and out for the past couple of months. On a good week I manage two posts. On bad weeks I managed...maybe one. My visiting habits dwindled to almost nothing - and I felt badly about this. Really badly. Of course, then I became overwhelmed with how much I have missed with you and that I will never catch up and that led to anxiety attacks...well you kind of get the idea.

You may have called. You may have emailed or even sent a letter. I most likely didn't respond, as I rarely answer my phone and have been known to even avoid my email so as to not have to interact with other humans. It wasn't you - and I say that in an authentic manner. I'm not trying to break up with you in a nice restaurant, or the college dining hall ( as an aside, was it Only at UVM that a majority of breakups occurred at the Dining Hall? It became a sport - Spot the pissed off dumped partner...)

But I digress. Which is what I do often. But you knew that.

I guess what I wanted to say is that I know you've been watching - even if you haven't commented. I know you all check in with me - make sure nothing major seems to be going down, as I maneuver in my holding pattern with life.

I am, on the whole, WAY better. The manic episodes have not recurred since I ditched the Wellbutrin, and I can say with certainty that this particular medication was NOT for me. I am one of those minuscule percents who have a very definite and strong reaction to it, as it nearly immediately sends me into a full fledged mania.

Of course, the root issue was the move. The root issue was my giving up my identity professionally. The root issue was my sense of my loss of freedom financially and loss of status. This set the stage for much bigger demons to make their debut. And I found they not only debuted, but they kicked the asses of every other player on the stage until they were allowed to rampage around alone - pulling down the velvet drapes and setting them on fire.

OF course, I am less afraid of my crazy since my postpartum depression. Every episode that I manage without planning to kill my child seems a step up from the darkest days of that depression. No, this last one was targeting me, and me alone. There were things you all didn't know - the episode where I hadn't eaten for at least three days, and ended up with strep throat, crying hysterically in the doctors office, thinking I was dying. Terrance was away and without him to watch me - telling me to eat, I simply failed to eat. Or drink much of anything. This was confounded by my throat closing up with the infection and becoming dehydrated. I lay on the table, sobbing, embarrassed, trying to explain that I was at the tail end of a manic episode, and sure that they were going to stick me in some kind of institution. The "special" doctor came to assess me - taking down all the names of the therapists treating me.

There are other things that I am not sure I will ever be able to talk about. Who knows. Maybe someday.

The good thing that I learned is that I am creative and able to keep my professional life on a somewhat even keel - getting A's in all 4 courses I took during this year, while being gripped by an ungodly writers block. I wish that on no one, for when my desire to write dried up - my lack of stories - the discontinuation of the running commentary that narrates my life inside my head - that is when I knew something very dark was happening.

I have learned that depression is not something that one "gets over" - like the strep throat. It is something that I manage. It is something that sometimes overtakes me and kicks the everlovin' shit out of me. I both hate it, and have learned to be fond of it in a way I never expected. I learn a vast amount about myself in retrospect - regardless of the fact that I may be hiding my head under the quilt the whole time and insisting that everyone go away.

I can't promise that I will suddenly re-appear on your blogs - although it is one of my goals to start reading again faithfully. Not out of obligation, but because I ENJOYED it, them, you. I can't promise much of anything except that I am working to get myself back in balance, and that I am almost there. I am laughing again. I have made some peace with my husband. I am a mother to my daughter. My writing is becoming smoother and feels less forced to the Dawn inside my head.

I am sweeping away the ashes of the velvet drapes. I am tidying up the stage for the next performance. I think you'll like the next incarnation - at least I hope you will.
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