Clash of the Titans

Friday, July 31, 2009

The scene: Last night,My bedroom

Me: ( On computer reading witty Internet friends…silence)
Em: (On bed rolling around watching Disney Channel) Can I have some ice?
Me: In a minute, honey – mommy’s looking at something.
Em: Can you get me some ice?
Me: I said I would get you some in a minute, please wait.

Five minutes pass

Em: Mom, you said you would get me some ice.
Me: I know – just let me finish this
Em: (Loud, audible sigh)
Me: Ask your father if you can’t wait.
Em: I can wait, I just want some ice.
Terrance: (From other room) Get her the ice yourself!
Me: Fine, I will get you some ice!

I go to the fridge and retrieve three ice cubes for my child to chew on. At the same time, my husband requests that I fetch him something from another room “since I’m up”. I scowl at him and march back into hand my child her accursed ice cubes, then march back out to give him the paper he requested.

2.7 minutes later

Em: I’m ready for bed – I’m done with the ice cubes.
Me: You have got to be shitting me. You’re done with the ice cubes? After all that?
Em: Yeah, just put them in the sink.
Me: You know, it’s lucky you are so cute, or we would have left you by the side of the road to be raised by rodents a long time ago.
Em: (perfectly serious) One Time you did.*
Me: Oh no, sister, that was your father – you can’t pin that one on me. That’s one therapy session in which I won’t be featured.

** Back story.

When Emily was just three, she had a bad habit of throwing things at us when we drove. Her shoes, socks, toys, books. She would get mad and throw things. One rainy day she threw something at her daddy as he drove and he said:

Terrance: “You do that again and I am going to stop and put you out at the side of the road”
Emily: Throws something
Tee: “I am serious, little bad ass – don’t think I won’t stop and put your ass out”
Emily: “Go ahead. Do it.”

(I am in the passenger seat with my mouth a perfect O – cause it is ON now, mofo. White parents will threaten - Black parents will DO)

Terrance pulls over to the side of the road.
Tee: Ok – Get Out”
Emily: Unbuckles her car seat “Ok, I’m going”

She GETS OUT of the car and stands by the car in the rain and shuts the door,

Me: Turning to Terrance “Holy Shit – what are we going to do?”
Tee: I don’t know – I didn’t think she would really get out
Me: She is such a bas ass. I am going to unroll the window and ask her if she wants to get back in.

Me: Em – are you ready to get back in the car?

She stares at me with her little lips puckered up in defiance

Me: “You can get back in, if you are ready to listen to Daddy’s words”

Emily silently opens the car door and climbs back into her car seat.
We drive home and I prepare myself for the hell that will be her teenage years.

Originally Published October 2005

Nothing more than feelings

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Below is the post that I have had in draft since the 2007 BlogHer. I rarely leave my own blog cave anymore, and have only very,very recently started looking at other peoples blogs again.

Not because I don't love my true Bloggy Friends, but because well, I didn't like what the Blog world had become in 2007. I couldn't participate in what I was seeing. It horrified me then and I ran as fast and far as I could.

This is the conference where I watched True Wife get blatently ripped off and very, very few of my Blog "friends" stood by me. Some did, of course -( and you know who you are) and for that, you have my serious lifelong loyalty. I mean it. Karen, need a bottle of wine? I can drive it there. Izzy - you remain THE SHIT. Nancy, Jenn, Jess, and Tammy - we need a serious mini-blog-us long weekend.

In reading some of the recap posts across the net, I have had a hearty chuckle. Oh, the pots calling the collective kettles black. Great googley moogley. Some of these same outraged bloggers did the very same things in 2007. There didn't seem to be any outrage then. Well, maybe from me - who then got kind of kicked out of the "in crowd".

Listen. I hold no ill will towards people who make money from their writing - how ever they do it. I made my peace with where the Blog world was heading in 2007. As with any medium, the cream WILL rise. Women who are good writers will continue on as writers. Mommy-ness has not a good god damn thing too do with it. Children grow, Mommy hood changes - but we remain. The Women writers. The Women Bloggers. Complex. Quirky. Smart. Real.

No one handed me a medal in 2005 for blogging and the 50 bucks or so I earn from all my combined ad revenue keeps me in Coffee for the month, so I continue on. I Blog because I want to Blog, just like I slog away at this PhD ( and this is the point where I raise my fist and say KHAN!!!!) because I WANT it. A newish friend said to me "You have a thirst to write this all out, don't you?"

Yep. Thats why I do this. Because I have to. I want to. I need to.


Hi there.
Its Me.
At BlogHer 2007. And I am not enjoying myself - Which is no fault of the conference sponsors, organizers, or anyone affiliated with the conference planning.

On one hand, I thought it would be good to come and network and visit with old bloggy friends and make a few new ones - kinda like I did last year. And that part? Awesome. Amazing. Pee inducing hysteria and fun.

I mean, for real. When you can wake up and have Izzy announce that she wishes a man with limited clothing would deliver a platter of bacon to our room. Fan-fucking-tastic.

And the drinking? Most excellent, as always. We are a community of barely restrained alkies, us Bloggers we.

However on the other hand - one thing I loved about blogging, the intimacy, the feeling of belonging that I once derived from reading others blogs and in writing my own? I am not feeling it.

Of course, I may no longer be in with the in-crowd after my year long mind-losing crazy fest.

And hey. I was never meant to be in an in crowd anyway. It freaks me out. Shit, just being in a ballroom with what feels like a mind crushing amount of people is freaking me out - which is one of the many reasons I have fled to the safety of my room. I don't know nearly anyone here....and I won't wear my nametag cause having everyone look at my boob is unsettling.

And then, there is something else. I am not a name caller. I will not go into details regarding what I will now forever after refer to as "the awakening" - but something happened here, for me, that has hurt me - deeply. As I lay my head on Her Bad Mothers shoulder today and had a little cry I realized that my perception of the Blog-i-verse? The one in which people respect others and play fair? The one in which credit is given to the appropriate people?

Well. I am naive. I should have been more savvy. Played harder. As much as anything else, I am sad and hurt by my own naivety. I am alarmed at the person I will have to inhabit to rectify what I consider to be a fundamental wrong. I am saddened by the realization that MY dream/fantasy world of BlogHer/blogging is not what I wanted or hoped or needed.

It's No "Tommy"

I have been contemplating what my life would like as a Musical Opera, in the style of the great Rock Opera’s of past.

I would like to propose some song titles that would encompass my experiences throughout the day:

Side 1:

In Praise of Prozac, or how I get up in the morning
Where have all the run-free pantyhose gone?
Kidz Bop is the Devil’s music
Seriously Dude, you need to calm down before you have a stroke (A duet with my husband)
Emily, stop dancing around naked and get ready for school.
(This is a three-parter with the above Duet with my husband)

I have reached heaven, and its name is Dunkin Donuts
Guy in the F150 pickup, do not cut me off, for your job can not be all that great that you need to get there this fast, I see that you are in landscaping and like Nascar.

No small talk in the elevator (leave me alone) - a doo-wop number
What fresh hell is this? (the reading of the email)
Which morphs into the plaintive solo:
Are people really this stupid? (The Idiot Song)

Side 2:

Hey, Gas is 2.29! Fill ‘er up!
What do you want for dinner? (The Cell phone song)
Mommy has wine breath, but she still reads to me every night (sung by Emily)
Go to sleep, child, go to SLEEP!
If Mommy and Daddy don’t have sex soon, we will get divorced and it will be all your fault.

Bonus tracks:

I mock you, yes I do. (The Superiority song)
You can never have too many shoes – unless they are from Payless.
F is for Fuck
Suck it, Uber-Mom’s

Feel free to add your own.

Originally publish November 2005

Rude Awakening

Monday, July 27, 2009

My day started earlier than I would have liked.

Sorry, the futility of the first sentence struck me as funny. Since giving birth to my bundle o'fun seven years ago, ALL my days have started earlier than I would have liked.

As you know, Emily sleeps with me. The American Academy of Pediatrics may suggest that I have been trying to bump her off by endangering her with my "Family bed", and I may suggest that they shove it up their collective asses.

She wakes like clockwork at about 6:30 and begins her Bhutan Death march campaign to wake me up. It's a little game we play. She doesn't want anything in particular, just to be assured that I am NOT sleeping. She seems to feel very strongly that if she isn't sleeping, I shouldn't be sleeping.

I usually murmur something loving along the of "Leave me Alone!" or "Stop Touching me!" and try to roll away from her.

When she was small, I assumed that she had not intended to elbow me in the nose, or kick me directly in the crotch, or lean with her elbow on my nipple. Now I comprehend that she was simply perfecting her technique.

For this morning's stunt......

I am laying there, half asleep. Thinking of the day's schedule - ballet, have to go pick up a cake at a very yummy bakery, going to friends tonight, so need to pack an overnight bag .... you know, the stuff that women think of before they get up.

I hear a funny whirring noise. It's kind of far away and only goes on for a second. So I return to my day dreams of cake and bottles of wine with adults tonight and being away from bags of frozen peas....I begin to drift back to sleep.

Suddenly, I am being rushed back to the tunnel of consciousness. Something is very wrong my body is yelling, wake UP!

As my eyes fly open, they look directly into a small ultra violet light, which makes my head snap back as I exclaim "Emily, what the hell is WRONG with you?"

She has taken this small "Finding Nemo"aquarium top off a toy, and has pressed it's ultraviolet light to my eyelids in her latest attempt to awaken me.

Em:"Oh, sorry, Mama"
She says this in a breathless, innocent way. Then hops off the bed to go see her daddy. She wins again, I am awake!

I can actually still see the purple circle when I close my eyes. She may have cheered the back of my retina's.

I think my kid is channeling Mengele

Originally publish November 2005

Tit for Tat

Saturday, July 25, 2009

Good Morrow, gentle friends.

The deed is done.

I had some fun at my now sleeping husbands expense - for instance, I suggested that perhaps he ask for a "ball lift" while he was in there having work done. Mainly to say the words "ball" and "lift" together.

Also, as the Valium took effect and he started to get silly in the car, I said it was nice to have him be so relaxed and he announced "I'm always chill, baby." Which made me hysterical, cause he is the least "chill " man ever. I'm surprised diamonds haven't popped out of his ass.

So we get there and he is a bit loopy from the Valium and he is trying to give me instructions like, "If any of my clients call, tell them I am out of the country"

?????? What?

And "Even though I am dopey, I could still kick anyone's ass if I had too"

Thank God. Roving bands of attack chipmunks will be no match for my about to be neutered spouse.

I also ran out and took this picture while he was in the "procedure room." Was this logo designed by a 9 year old boy or what? Geesh, I wonder what they specialize in here? Does the same designer draw two circles and an arrow pointing at a black triangle for a gynecologist's office?

Then I waited for them to call him in. I threatened to come in and do a photo-documentary. He did not find this funny. At all.

So I sat and waited.

I told you the waiting room was straight outta 1975

And then the doctor came out to get me. I started to smile at him. I couldn't help it.

I go in and there he is - the father o' my child, laying flat on his back with his hands over his face. His crotch is ensconced in gauze and he begins to hold his testicles. He walks out of the building...holding his testicles. We drive home, and he is laying as flat as he can in the. I run into the grocery store to purchase the bags of peas to ice him down.

we begin to drive home. He must be in pain, for he lifts up his sweatpants and places a bag of frozen peas on his testicles. The old man in the truck beside us watches a big black man shove a bag of peas down his pants. He looks a bit distraught - the old man that is. Perhaps the Conservatives are right, for right there, next to his truck is a Black man doing unnatural things to frozen vegetables.

Terrance has no clue anyone is watching him. I giggle.
I hear a new musical coming on:
"ain't nobody having sex with veg-e-tables"

But, poor husband. He does look bad now. I just re-iced his balls with another bag of frozen peas and gave him more ibuprofen. He said "My balls are killing me" before he fell asleep.

And then I remember pushing a baby out of a certain place and think that this seems a fair trade.

Originally publish 11/4/2005

I dedicate this entry to Dr. Pap Smear

Thursday, July 23, 2009

While I try to locate my sense of humor, please enjoy these older, but still hysterical pieces:

Yesterday I went with my spouse to the Penis doctor and we talked about his vasectomy. I do not have familiarity with doctors such as this, as my needs are quite different. However, I can tell you that when I have been in the office of my midwife, there are lovely paintings, fresh flowers, soft classical music, and an overall sense that things will be just fine.

This was not the case at the office of the Penis doctor. The chairs looked like something that I remember seeing in my grandmother's basement in 1975. They were that Pleather stuff with the multiple buttons punched in the cushions. There was a bucket of skanky looking toys to the side, swarming with typhoid - although why anyone would be bringing their child to this office, I can only imagine. It had a definite "Guys Bathroom" feel about it - without the obvious urine smell.

The highlight, aside from the vast assortment of car and gun magazines, was the electronic Viagra quiz display. With my husband next to me, I delightedly grabbed it, turned it on and announced that I would take the Viagra quiz. There were five simple questions to determine if I needed Viagra. The first was "Do you have trouble getting and maintaining an erection?"

My answer: Yes.

Second question: "When you penetrate your partner, are you unable to sustain an erection?"

My answer: Yes!

By this time, my husband is looking apologetically at the one other man in the office. I am taking too much joy in the Viagra quiz. I am taking this joy loudly. I finish the quiz and score a 5. Apparently if you score anything under a 21, you need viagra. My husband congratulates me on not having a penis.

The woebegone nurse calls his name. I leap up enthusiastically, my high heels and swishy skirt discordant with my surroundings. We walk back into the weird warren of rooms and are shown into a cube of a room. We sit. I announce "This is the crappiest doctors office I have ever been in!". I observe the giant posters of the penis, bladder and prostate. Terrance shrugs. I observe the giant penis related health scramble they have laminated and pasted above the exam table. While having your examine, they would like you to search out words like "vasectomy" and "prostate" and "testicle".

I express my hysteria at this word scramble! The midwife had lovely poetry and inspirational thoughts above her exam table. "Is that supposed to keep your mind off of the "finger up the butt" exam?". I am practically howling with laughter.

The doctor enters and I compose myself. He begins to give us the "Vasectomy Talk". He has a pamphlet which he opens and refers during his speech. I enjoy this speech very much. He gets to the description of the actual procedure where he explains that he will poke two holes in my husbands testicles and cut and burn my husbands vas deferens. My husband looks slightly unwell at this point. I am grinning.

We move on to the discussion of "after procedure" issues. I am instructed to examine my husbands testicles for "bleeds" and told that a cantaloupe sized sack is normal - grapefruit is not.
If I could have fallen from the chair and rolled around on the floor, clutching my sides in laughter, I would have. The doctor then sternly tells us that my husband and I must have sex a minimum of 20 times before he can bring in a sample for testing. Terrance perks us at this news.

I sign the paper giving my consent. Terrance signs the paper. We get his Valium prescription and make a date for the deed - November 4th.

Then - and this is BY FAR- the best part of the whole thing. The doctor asks to examine the husbands penal area. I feel like I have won the fucking lottery. I am fully clothed, not on an exam table, not in labor and my husband is being asked to drop his pants by another guy and I am watching. Oh, the sweet, sweet irony.

I watch, intently. I can not, truth be told, look away. My manly man stand up, fumbles with his belt and drops his pants. Another man puts on gloves and starts examining his testicles. They are chatting and the doctor announces that he has found one vas deferens, then the other. "You're perfectly normal - this will be an quick procedure", the doctor announces.

We leave. We get in the car. "That rocked!", I say. "I'm glad you enjoyed it", says Terrance.
"Happy Anniversary!", I say. "Happy anniversary to you.", says Terrance.
"Now", he says, "let's go get our daughter and go out for some margarita's at Slims."

I grin at him. "I'll even buy.", I say.


Wednesday, July 08, 2009

There is a sadness in me at times. I don't know what to do with it.

"Its Hormones", I tell myself. But I don't believe me. My breasts are achey and sore and I am all kinds of bitchy, but I know it isn't just the whore-moans.

My search for an apartment is exhausting. Who knew that finding a place I like and feel that my kid could grow and thrive in could be so freaking draining? Certainly not me. I swing from heady enthusiasm to abject misery with every place I look at or email or call about. Excited! Miserable! Back to Excited! Now with more moping! Gah. Even I am sick of me.

A couple of weeks ago I visited a condo which looked promising. Really promising. The location was good - nice parks, close enough to Ems school for easy transport and a nice "main street" that I love. I viewed it and came home. I had promised to pick up dinner on my way home, so I did that and weighed the next conversation with Terrance.

The "Yes, I am really moving out" conversation. Which I thought we had both agreed was good. Was best. Was the "right thing to do".

Why I didn't expect his protests, I will never know. But I didn't. I was, in fact, shocked. He recanted everything that had been said up to that point. He told me how much he loves me, that our family was the most important thing to him. That keeping our family together is the most important thing to him....but If I was set on leaving, he wouldn't stop me.

Wh-Wh-WH-WHAT? I did what any sane person would do at that moment. I burst into sobs.

"But you said you wanted to get divorced!", I heaved and hiccuped through my tears.

And then - in true Dawn and Terrance fashion - he bit into a shrimp which was hidden in his takeout Pad Thai and had to go to the emergency room. Leaving me flapping and fluttering around the house, hysterically crying and thinking "OH MY GOD I KILLED HIM WITH TAKEOUT!" and alternately mad at him for not picking up the god damn epi-pen from the last time he had an allergic reaction, and then upset because I had no liquid Benedryl in the house and I ALWAYS have liquid Benedryl in the house...

By the time he gets back, I am exhausted. Hysterical and exhausted.

Because what I want, what I crave, is this to be a joint decision. Much like we marched into marriage. But what I am getting is uncertainty. On both our parts. We waver back and forth like flames in a windstorm. How do people just do it? Just pack up one day and depart? AS much as I want this to be over, to just end so I can heal and move on, I am terrified to be without him. I love him. I just don't want to live with him anymore.
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