La Chatte meets Coco

Because the pet that every tough black man with from Detroit desires is this:



Meet Coco, our newly adopted family member.



What's That? You think Dwarf bunnies are all fun and furry and lovable?




Oh we are. We are sweet and funny and curious.



UNTIL YOU TURN OUT THE LIGHTS!



I plan on chewing off your faces, bitches!!!!!

And you, La chatte - don't even think of messing with me. You think that hair cut they gave you was bad? Imagine how it will be to have your ass whooped by a four pound rabbit.



Yeah. You got 99 problems, but this rabbit ain't one.

Can this man stand any more humiliation?

Hello my lovelies....

I have not abandoned you - simply knew you could wait for me for a bit. My friend Jess today texted me with a hearty "ARE YOU ALIVE????"

Working less than full time at any one job has led me to work far more than full time in any given week. That and I am the proverbial balls deep into my comp questions, with a look at defending them this fall...and getting my research prepped for next school year in the winter. Methodologies, ethical permission to study children, finding a good site which will match with my personality and style of teaching.

This shit is tiring.

Oh, and for fucks sake, Terrance just yelled into the bedroom to ask if I wanted to go to my 20th High school reunion. Do I? I can't juggle that thought at the moment. Hey Christian are you going? Julie? Anyone? I sure as hell am not going to sit there by myself, and the pure idea make me weirdly nervous and stomach a-flutterin' - as if I just bit into a piece of sashimi that isn't quite right....

So while I grapple with my bizarro need for both "LOVE ME WORLD! SEE HOW MUCH I ROCK" and my (well documented) urge to run like the wind in the opposite direction of any kind of social situation, I give you this real life, true, honest to pete story.

Two weeks ago, I had just throughly washed my selection of vibrators.

(Now THAT is a sentence to be proud of!)

I noticed that the oldest one - my first pink Rabbit - was ....well.... not looking so good. The material it is most likely made of is the same kind of stuff which has recently been flagged as "BAD FOR YOUR HEALTH". And lets face it - if I am not supposed to have it as a shower curtain, I certainly don't want to be having a far more intimate encounter with it. I may not plan on using the vagina as an exit for child in the future, but I sure as hell would like to keep it in commission for the next 60 years.

Being a practical lass, I made the decision to bid adieu to my beloved and trusty Pink Jack Rabbit. I threw it away and went about my day.

Several hours later, Terrance was in the kitchen. His yell alerted me to something being amiss.

"DAWN! OMIGOD! GET IN HERE!! I THINK THERE IS SOMETHING IN THE GARBAGE"

I think we all see where this is going, right?

I walk into the kitchen to see Terrance looking at the garbage pail as if an angry badger was going to bust out and gnaw his ankle. I sigh, dramatically.

"Its nothing. Don't worry about it."

"WHY? DO YOU KNOW WHATS IN THERE???"

"Yes. I threw something away.Really - don't worry."

His eyes narrow. The noise from the bottom of the garbage continues joyfully.

"What is in the garbage."

Another sigh from me. He has never been a "fan" of my array of toys and I really don't want to explain this whole thing, and now I regret - deeply - the oversight of taking the batteries out of the damn thing.

"My rabbit vibrator - I decided that the plastic was most likely degrading and I couldn't disinfect it properly, so I threw it out."

"Dawn! In the garbage?!? We have to get it out!!!"

He stares at the bag of garbage. He seems to actually intend to empty the trash to get to the still buzzing away rabbit.

"Why do we have to get it out - The batteries were just about dead anyway. Shit, the thing never functioned so well for me as it seems to be at the bottom of the can - the cord was wonky and would cut out on me at the most inopportune time...."

"What if the garbage men hear it? We can't have it buzzing and going off when they empty the trash!"

I fix a very puzzled stare at my spouse. He seems to be concerned for the delicate moral nature of our sanitation engineers. Because they NEVER see things in peoples garbage...and most likely have NEVER seen any kinds of sex toys or things of a sexual nature..... I would be more concerned to find it in the recycle bin than the trash.

As if on cue, the vibrator comes to an abrupt halt. Our garbage is once again silent.

"Why don't I take it out to the bin?", I suggest taking the bag from the hands of my scandalized husband.

I'll bail you out once I stop laughing

Poor Terrance.

My husband has notoriously bad luck when it comes to crossing borders, or boarding planes. He gets pulled out or over almost every time he travels alone. I am not sure if he gives off a certain shady vibe to the airport security, or border guards, but they eye him like he is certainly up to no good.

A couple of years ago, he was coming back from Detroit. He had dropped Emily off and was driving back through Canada to get home to New Hampshire. He was driving my car.

Now, it is no secret that I am a little lax when it comes to cleaning up. This includes the car. I mean, to carry all that stuff back in at the end of the day just seems like a bit much to me. And that Second cup bag...it's empty after all. And those nearly empty water bottles? And that couple pair of shoes? Plus you never know when a sleeping bag and tent in the trunk will come in handy. Not to mention that bag of bird seed back there. What if I am trapped in the woods and being threatened by rabid robins? That stuff could save my life.

Occasionally, I will "clean" up. This generally involves my finding a container that closes and stuffing all the odds and ends into it...and closing the lid. Voila! I did the same with all the spare change I had floating in the car. I had a little cigar box that I kept the change in - For both my own easy access and if someone was going to steal it from my car, I wanted them to have it all in one place and not go scrounging around breaking stuff.

When Terrance was pulled over at the Canadian border, the car was searched. He was personally at a loss as to explain the how and why of most of the contents of my trunk. So imagine his befuddlement when the angry border guards confronted him with a cigar box full of change and unlabeled pills that they pulled out of the trunk.

"What are the 12's? What are the 12's", they kept asking him.

He kept repeating, "This is my wife's car" to the border guards.

"These pills - the 12's. What are they?"

"I don't know. I don't know what she has in the car. I had no idea that the change box was in the trunk...."

He was kept for nearly 5 hours at the border being interrogated about the ominous handful of "12's" pills in the change box.

He was not allowed to call me, as I could have easily told him the origin of the "12's".

They were, of course, Walmart brand Ibuprofen. I 2 is printed on the pill. Ibuprofen, 200 mgs. They had fallen out of a bottle and been scooped up into the change box about a year and a half before hand. They had rolled around with the change all that time, becoming the ominous "12's" that caused the border security to launch a full fledged CSI investigation.

My laughter, once Terrance called me upon his release, may have been heard all the way into Canada from New Hampshire.

He did not find it so funny.

Last Year, he found that he was on the "No Fly" list, as he shares a similar name and birth date with a drug lord in Detroit.

More laughing on my part.

Yesterday, after seeing him off on his trip to New York, I get a phone call from him.

"You can't blog about this", were the FIRST words out of his mouth.

Oh. Come. On. You can't lead with that statement! Why not put a coconut cake in front of me and demand that I not touch it!

"All right", I agreed.

He drove to New York this time, as the time and expense of air travel far out weighed the time and expense of renting a car and driving. He expected the normal questions at the US Border.

"Why do you have a Canadian car?"
"Why do you have two addresses?"
"What do you mean you live in two places?"
"Why is the car in your wife's name?"
"Where is she?"

and he gets waved over to have the car searched. It is , for the record, a tiny Orange Hyundai.

They take out all of his luggage and begin to search.

The youngish border guard reaches in and pulls out....a pair of Emily's underwear. Little Girls underwear.

Terrance reports that the young man looked at him like he had just caught the head of Kiddie Porn Al Queda.

"What's this?", the border guard asks Terrance.

"They're my daughters - they must have gotten mixed in with my clothes...", Terrance replies nervously.

The border guard is not buying his story.

The border guard pulls out a second pair of Emily's underwear.

Terrance now reports that the man is staring at him with laser beam eyes.

Terrance tries to explain that the laundry is near where we keep the travel bags and often stuff falls into the travel bags. That his daughter is ten...and see, he has a picture of her in his wallet, and look at the travel documents - he is living in Canada with his wife AND daughter...

Another guard joins the search.

Terrance reports that the younger guard was continuing his "Eyes of Death" campaign..

No really - he is a DAD, Terrance explains. A DAD. He isn't a pervert, just a DAD who does laundry and sometimes gets her clothes mixed up in his clothes. Nothing sketchy here. Just a Dad...

The second guard searches Terrance's stuff. Looks at Terrance's documents and pictures of his daughter.

Reluctantly, they let Terrance go. Terrance reports that the younger border guard had clearly already tried, convicted and sentenced Terrance for crimes against children in his mind. He glared at him the whole time, and continued to do so as he drove away.

"It was so embarrassing...", Terrance says to me.

"But sweetie - you didn't do anything wrong - you're just a Dad who had a few of his daughters underwear mixed in with his stuff...."

"I know but GOD! Dawn - you should have seen this guy looking at me!"

"Sweetie - black dude with dreadlocks with a rented Canadian car in his wife's name, traveling alone from Montreal to New York....with two pairs of little girl underwear in his luggage? There are books being written about how you are a security risk RIGHT NOW. You are the reason for Homeland Security. All you needed was a Koran and some plant food in the trunk and I would have never seen you again. You were the most exciting thing to come across the border in weeks. You get to be that guys story about how he almost brought down the Pervie Terrorists."

"You're right."

"so,Can I blog about this? "

"I wish you wouldn't."

"You know I'm going to - this is far too good."

When I become a superhero, you will know why

I walk by this almost everyday and I absolutely LOVE this sign. I like to think that if I were to go through that door and enter the RADIATION LABORATORY, take a left and wander into the CYCLOTRON that my dreams of a super power will come true.

Alas, I fear I will merely be transformed into "Sarcasm Girl" and no one will know the difference. Or perhaps "Unwilling Soccer Mom"...or "Perpetually Twists her ankle while wearing clogs, yet persists in wearing clogs because they are so convenient Lady."

One of the lesser known effects of gender bias

Sunday Morning - I am in the shower.

Emily enters the bathroom and begins to brush her teeth.

Emily: "Mama. I think I have gender bias."

Me: "What? What did you say?"

Emily: "Gender Bias. I think I have it."

Me: "Why do you think you have gender bias?"

Emily: "Cause when I brush my teeth, I can see a little blood on my gums."

Dawn: "That's Gingivitis, honey - not gender bias... Although both are pretty insidious."



Someone is clearly listening as her parents watch the Sunday morning political shows....

Not my Bag, Baby

While my "thing" for shoes has been well documented, I was never a purse gal.

I know purse gals...and I just never got it. I mean...A purse? The bag you carry your shit around in? What is the big deal?

For most of my adult life, I have been a very low maintenance purse female. I never thought much about what I carried or why..or how. Terrance would usually look at whatever I was lugging around and pronounce that it had to Go...and I would be presented with a new purse...which I would carry around until the next purse was presented and the old one confiscated by my spouse.

That was until I moved here to Montreal.

It was unexpected, my first sighting. I was browsing in Westmount in a cute little boutique and I saw it. Matt and Nat purses. It was orange, this first specimen, and completely impractical. I mean - an orange purse? I went back twice to the store and would hold this first purse. I couldn't bear to BUY it as I could not justify my parting with a hundred bucks for an orange purse.

Besides. I wasn't a purse girl. I am a shoe girl.

And then Terrance bought me the first one after we discovered that the orange one i had so coveted was gone. Pulled for being out of season....



It's the big one, the cognac Jorga. The smaller mustard one was an early birthday present this year...and the red one joined it's compatriots this week.

Because the demons that are Matt and Nat had a sample sale. And I went. Really, I just wanted a black one to match the other cognac "Bond Street" I got for my anniversary....


Which I found...and Then I saw this purse which so beautifully matched the computer bag I got for Christmas....



And from there it was a slippery, all vegan non-leather, slope - my friends.
The sale itself? PACKED. As in "I feel as if I am in a slaughterhouse line waiting to be zapped" packed. And Hot. As in "Hey, I now know what women in the workhouses in the 19th century must have felt like in these huge, no air circulation factory rooms right before the fire killed them and they formed the basis of a Stephan King book" hot.

But oh. The purses. The beautiful purses.







And there it was...calling my name as I walked through the door. The orange purse. Trainspotting, it is named. And it is now mine.



P.S. This is where I was.....You can see me at about 15 seconds in the film getting off the elevator.... Those women scared me outside.

Cruel to be Kind

Like every mother, I L-O-V-E my kid.

I think she is sweet and funny and talented...in her own way.

This morning, she hit her father and I up with the "permission slip" for the talent show.

The one in which she planned to sing Hannah Montana songs.

She exited into the shower to sing - enthusiastically. With Gusto.

Of course, she doesn't know all the lyrics to these songs. And she kind of screeches as she sings.

Terrance and I exchange pained looks.

"You're going to have to do something - she can't go on a stage and sing....", he says to me.

"I know. It will be a disaster..."

I muster up all my mommy courage and approach her as she gets dressed.

"You know honey - maybe it isn't the best idea for you to plan to sing in the talent show this year - you haven't practiced and you don't know all the words and it is in two weeks...."

She is outraged! OUTRAGED!!!!

She rails against me. She WANTS to do it. She CAN do it. She WILL do it!

My tactics need to change. I go for the jugular.

"Baby - not everyones talents lie in singing. I know you like to sing and you have a nice voice for singing at home and in the shower...but I am not sure that you should sing on stage...."

Dear Lord. The knives that fly out of my child's eyes pierce me through the heart.

She begins the appeal to her father...and I say "He thinks the same thing!" in my defense.


Terrance cuts my rope from his ship. "What's wrong baby? No, I didn't say you weren't a very good singer....."

I glare at him. "I just don't want you to be teased by your friends, sweetie...", I stammer.

And then she turns to me, eyes full of tears and shouts:

"YOU'RE DESTROYING MY CONFIDENCE!!!!"

All this before 8:30 in the morning.

Team of her Own

I have made few bones about the "type" of Mom I am. A goofy Mom. An artsy mom. A Mom willing to go to ridiculous lengths to secure the "right" playmobil for any given occasion. I'm the mom who HAS playdough and fingerpaint in her home and is perfectly fine with the mess. Want to blast your music from your room while you make up your bed? No Problemo.

Yesterday, however, found me in a role in which I honestly never envisioned myself.

Soccer Mom. More specifically, sitting on the edge of a field shouting "Good Job, Emily!"

It all started when I went away. You know - to hang with the guys in their bathroom in Borders. The phone call left me incredulous. Soccer? Are you kidding? My kid running up and down a field kicking a ball. Um, No. Besides this was something Terrance wanted her to do, which meant that she would whine and cry and after one disastrous practice the ludicrous idea would be abandoned. We don't RUN...at least I don't run.

And team sports? {shudder} I don't get it. I tried in 7th and 8th grade basketball.... until I got kicked off the team for being mouthy to the coach. I think, for the record, I called her a bitch. So endth my juvenile sports career. No - I was destined for the individual achievements. Arts and Drama! Overacting, and Madrigal singing! Hey Nonny, Nonny! Places where weird, opinionated, smart ass teens such as myself gravitated in order to mock our lemming like counterparts with extended skits from Monty Python. Wink Wink, Nudge, Nudge, Say No More.

Yet there I was last night. Trying to look kind of cool with my gauchos and "Model Citizen" T-shirt and unruly hair. Holding my cup of coffee and wearing my bad ass Danish Clogs. And there was my kid. Running up and down the field - looking winded....but Happy? Does she look happy? Dear christ - is she enjoying this? Did she just shout words of encouragement to her team mates and raise her arms in the "GOAL" motion?

Terrance leaned into me just after I squealed and shouted "Get Ready Emily!".

"I know this isn't your thing", he murmured. "But you're being a really good Mom."

I glanced at him - balefully - over the top of my coffee cup. And felt my daughter grow a little further up and away from me.

Two sides to every story

Dawn:
(on cell)
"Okay - I will meet you over at Legal Seafood in a few minutes - Yeah I am in Borders, but I just have to pee so I'm going to hang up and I'll call you when I am done to let you know I am on my way. Jesus! This is a terrible bathroom!"

Now internal dialog of Dawn:

{{{{This is seriously the worst bathroom I have ever been in - Borders must have a contingent of homeless people who LIVE in this bathroom. Bleck. It stinks in here. That person next to me has incredibly ugly shoes. And are they wearing overalls? Who the fuck wears overalls and furthermore - who wears overalls and lets the latches fall onto that disgusting bathroom floor? Dear christ. This bathroom STINKS. Is that a magazine stuck behind the toilet? Seriously??? Who smuggles a magazine into a borders bathroom? I am just going to hang over the toilet and try to pee so I can get out of here as humanly possible. There isn't a place to hang my purse. WTF? Now I have to hang onto my purse and pee, because there is no WAY I am letting my sweet little Matt & Nat bag touch that floor. Phew. Done. I am getting out of here. Just need to wash my hands. Okay. Mirror check. Not bad for the hair, although the rain is making it lose it's mind. Where is the soap dispenser? }}}}

Said out load : "Why is the soap dispenser on the other wall away from the sinks? What kind of design genius did this?"

{{{I mean HONESTLY - who puts soap on the opposite wall from the sinks? Jesus. This is the worst bathroom EVER. I already know there are no paper towels. I am just going to flap my hands and dry them off and then I am wrapping them in my coat cause I am TOTALLY NOT touching the handle on the way out. Yep. Hair looks good. A little lip balm. That person in the stall is still there and not making any noise. I hope she finds some better shoes, cause those SUCK....and all right - ready to go............
Walking out the door - hand with coat out to pull door..............Hey. Whats that? Is that a urinal? Oh my fucking god, it was...}}}}


Imagined Internal dialog of other person in bathroom:


oh my god. who just came into the bathroom? Is she on the phone? fuck. am I in the right place? I am just going to sit here as quietly as possible and hope this is over quickly. I wonder if I am in the right place. Try not to fart. My entire ass has seized up. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Murder in Ikea

Busy here - things all right - working my ass off trying to make enough money to send my kid to summer sleep away camp. I mean I GOT priorities and all. One of my classics, I think.




"What do you think of this couch?"
"Don't like it"



"How about these chairs?"
"Yeah, hate them."



"And this? How does this strike you?"
"You seriously like this piece of shit? It's hideous."



"I kind of like this couch - it seems comfy to read on."
"That couch is awful. Who would want a couch like that in their house?"



"Here, try this chair. I like this one."
"It's the SAME chair you hated five minutes ago, just in a different color."



"Listen. I am 36 years old. I deserve to have real furniture. I do not want leather couches. I am sit of living on futons, mother fucker. I am not afraid to cut you."



"Did you just say that when you divorce me I can choose my own furniture?
It is O-N mutha-fucka...."



All right, so this may have been slightly more dramatized than the real event....but it was how it went in my mind. I think Ikea should have a lawyer on the way out, so you can draw up the divorce papers. Big ups to the Playmobil Playahs

On behalf of the Mean Mommies

Reprinted from my blog in the West Island Gazette

Friends,

I am pleased to be before you accepting the "Meanest Mom in the whole wide world" Award. Words can hardly express the shock and honor I feel as I stand here, gripping this statuette of a weeping child.

The circumstances behind my nomination highlight the mercurial nature of the Academy of Disgruntled Children and their review process.

I will, however, give you a brief synopsis.

It was a Saturday morning, like most others. Sheets needed to be changed, laundry done, and folded. In addition, my husband asked our daughter to make her bed and pick up the "stuff" from her floor.

"I want to see all of the things on this floor picked up and put away", he said.

What she heard, however, was:

"I want you to take all of this stuff and shove it under, on, about, over and otherwise IN any other container/drawer/basket/bucket that is NOT the one in which it belongs."

Sadly, it was the initial and fundamental mis-interpretation which would ultimately lead us down the path whereby I am standing before you today.

I was in the shower when the first volley was fired across the parental bow.

Our daughter, operating under the second set of aforementioned statements, had shoved all of her toys, crayons, doll clothes, playmobil, lip balm, scarves, mittens, pencils and other bits and pieces into a wide variety of crevices.

Her father, a highly trained mess detector, walked into her room and immediately spied a bag with a myriad of items all shoved in. He called the child's attention to the bag, as evidence of her failure to accurately put her things away. He later opened her dresser drawers to find a hodge podge collection of socks (some dirty), underwear, school shirts and a forlorn mitten all rolled into one drawer.

I exited my shower in time to hear the child call her father a "Clean Freak" and that she could tell him "No" at any time. She was choosing this moment to tell him "NO!, NO! and NO!" She wasn't, she reminded him, HIS SLAVE.

"Oh dear", I think. "I better get my clothes on cause it is totally going down in there."

Following the next four hours, including lunch in her room, Emily was given the opportunity to re-present her cleaning efforts to her father and I.

I am sorry to say that it went very, very badly.

Her Father and I endured the accusations of being the meanest parents in the WHOLE WORLD. Parents who got JOY from torturing their only offspring, requiring her to put her things back where they belong. Parents who would not rest until things such as CRAYONS were placed back into the basket from which they had emerged.

Yes. We were those parents. Parents who required that dirty clothes NOT be mixed in with the clean clothes in her dresser. Parents who rejected the theory that "If I can stuff it into a Bag and then HIDE the bag in the closet so they can't see it" equated to actual cleaning.

In the days since the initial incident, additional demands have been lain upon the poor, beleaguered child. She is now called back into the bathroom to pick up the nightgown and underwear she has discarded and stepped over twice ( once while getting IN the shower, and once while getting out) to carry it the 15 steps to the hamper.

Spelling mistakes were pointed out and the child was told to correct them in a book report! Offensive Vegetables were placed upon her dinner plate!

Oh! The Horror!

So, it is in this spirit that I accept this award. I know other Mom's are as, if not more so, deserving of this recognition.

And Now I have to go and make my kid eat fruit salad instead of the ice cream she wants.

And in this Corner --- The Agitator!

"Where the Fu Manchu has Dawn BEEN exactly?", I hear you all wondering."I mean, we all know that there is still SNOW in Montreal - she isn't out there skipping in the flowing green grass."

Aw, friends. It is true. There is still snow in Montreal. Partially decomposed pumpkins and Christmas Trees are emerging from gigantic snowbanks. I myself only just took down the garland, since I could finally walk over to it to cut it down. I would mock myself, except that- truly - the snow was so high and ridiculous that I couldn't GET to it.

I am interviewing a new psychiatrist. He puzzles me, this one. I have not yet decided if he is a genius who will actually help me move through some shit, or if he is an idiot. I lean toward Idiot, and then he says something which seems almost profoundly insightful and I think, "Hmmm. Maybe he isn't as stupid as I assume." I shake him up by using his full name when I address him to tell him that he puzzles me. He has, however, bumped my meds, which has helped, tremendously. I can't speak for all people with Depression, but when my meds are off...whoa Nellie. It ain't pretty.

This is one of the many reasons that I can understand my depression to be neurochemical in nature. I respond to medications within DAYS. Now if we could only correct my wonky sleep patterns.

The TA's at McGill are on strike and I say, THANK GOD! I was worried that if I had to be enclosed with one of the professors much longer I was going to say or do bad, bad things. As it were, I did file a concern with the Chair about some ethical issues I witnessed. My friend suggested that my Lucha Libre Name be "The Agitator". I found this to be very, very funny. I am sure it will be much less funny when I am never hired by the Department again due to my agitative ways. Of course, I take a small, mean spirited solace and knowing that all the exams are going to be marked by the Professor. I suspect after personally grading 75-150 exams and final projects, there will be sudden and immediate support by the Professors Union.

But you know what also make me Happy?

No, it isn't my obsessive dedication to getting my taxes filed last night, making me churn along until 2 in the morning - only to have to PAY the %$%^#$$@# government some moo-lah.

No, it isn't the tulips I bought to fill the house with - although that IS lovely.

It is the filling in of the summer calendar with Sleep Away camp. Whooo-Hooo. 2 Weeks of SLEEP AWAY CAMP!!!! Can you see me doing a jig of joy around my room? Yes, the baby that I so protectively held to my bosom, I am now flinging into the abyss of Sleep Away Camp.

Go Baby Bird! Fly Free!

And anyone going to Blogher? I may go and will not mope like I did last year, dammit (janet). Anyone need a roommate? I am still just thinking about it..but....

And now, I leave you with this little classic Dawn and Terrance conversation from Saturday morning:

Dawn: "Can you tell any difference in my skin after my mini facial?"

Terrance: "MMMfph"

Dawn: "Was that a Yes or a No?"

Terrance: "I don't know."

Dawn: "You didn't notice anything?"

Terrance: "You look fine."

Dawn: "That wasn't the question - Did you notice anything?"

Terrance: "You looked like you had your face washed."

Dawn: "That's it? My face washed?"

Terrance: "Yeah - like you do every morning after you've washed your face. You know - like you have a clean face."

Dawn: [Silence]

Terrance: "What?! What do you want me to say?"

Dawn (to Emily): "And herein lies how your father wooed me to be his wife. His masterful, sweet talking ways drove me right into his arms. Such flowery language, such astute observations! Can you see how I could not resist his charms?"

Terrance: "I still think you got the better deal."

I get called the "R" word

In my last post, some anonymous person subtlety called me racist.

While I assume that this person was some random reader who clicked through and read the post, threw out a comment and left...the comment sat with me.

I have been with a man not of my own racial background for the past 17 years. In order to make our relationship work, we have had to discuss and be playful about the issues of race in America. While the normal investigations of likes and dislikes was part of our courting....we also had to explicitly discuss race and the implications of a mixed racial relationship. Moving beyond casual dating meant that we had to be aware of and ready to face the thing that no body wants to really talk about. What it means to be Black and what it means to be White in America.

To have pretended that no one noticed the racial difference between us in New Hampshire would have been ludicrous. In a state that is 97% white, I could be invisible while one could not help BUT to notice Terrance.

This has also meant that we have had to develop a sense of humor about race. Yes, I said it. We make JOKES about race in our family. I am often called a "trifling white woman" by my husband. We both tell our daughter to put lotion on her "ashy ass before her butt checks start a fire". I have even used the "n" word...in private, when teasing my husband. These are conversations and jokes which would make many of my white friends and family extremely uncomfortable.

Does that make me racist? Does that make him racist?

Does noticing that there are "typical" Hollywood devices which reflect stereotypes about race in America make us racist?

Hell to the nizz-o.

The conversation about race is a continuing dialog in our house. I haven't stopped thinking about race for 17 years. Now, seeing as I am 37 years old that in and of itself is a shameful reflection on the ability of White American culture to subjugate and/or dismiss honest conversations about race. I got to spend my first 20 years fairly unaware of my position within a dominant culture.

So it is in that light that I take the "racist" comment. It is much easier to yell "racist" or "unpatriotic" and STOP the conversation than to carry it further. It is much easier to use race to block the honest discussion that Americans desperately need to be having. A sort of "We are all friends here" or "I am so progressive that I don't even SEE race" mentality is intentionally deciding to absolve the individual of the responsibility of looking at the implications of race in America.


Being called racist won't stop my conversations about race with my husband, child and family. Being called racist won't stop me from writing about the conversations that I have within my family. Being called racist won't stop me from seeing the humor in situations where there is humor to be had, nor will I stop joking with my friends in family about race.

Humor is part of the conversation, maybe some of the most important parts of the conversation. Without the ability to negotiate these conversations with playfulness, humor and open mindedness Terrance and I would have never gotten this far.

So, Anon commenter: I don't think White people are stupid....just incredibly uptight, defensive and humorless when it comes to the way they benefit from Dominating American culture and society. May I suggest that you remove the Politically correct stick out of your small, flat white ass and relax a little.

Suspended Disbelief

Scene: Dawn and Terrance watching "Vantage Point"

Terrance: "Hey - Did Forrest Whittaker just pick up his Digital recorder and it still works? Wasn't he just in a huge explosion? Are we supposed to believe that it still works - OH my GOD - he's running with the recorder! And filming the person that the secret service can't catch! He must have the worlds toughest video camera....and Jesus, he is outrunning the secret service!

Dawn: "Its a sad sad day when Forrest Whittaker with his bad eye and gimpy leg are out running the secret service - Oh My GOD! IS HE STILL FILMING ALL OF THIS? How the hell is that recorder still working? Maybe he should wear his Idi Amin outfit."

Terrance: "I know, right. Most video recorders would have gone down with the first explosion, let alone all the running and jumping Forrest has been doing - and why the hell is he calling people in the middle of a terrorist explosion scene - Dude. Get the fuck out of there."

Dawn: "Thats totally a white person move - standing in the middle of an explosion and calling people. I do not believe that Forrest would seriously call anyone in that situation."

Terrance: "Yeah - white people do dumb shit like that."

Dawn: "Maybe the secret service needs to employ Forrest, since he seems able to follow the suspect more accurately than they do."

Terrance:"Too bad he likes trannies."

End Scene

Um. Thanks Honey..I think.

I was sitting on the couch braiding Emily's hair. She was making terrible noises. She ALWAYS makes terrible noises. Noises like I am branding her feet with a capital "T" for "tender headed". I am ignoring her.

Commercials are on. Some vague advertisement for skin cream which will make you look like a small Spanish actress are flashing before our eyes.

"Mama? What are those things FOR?"

"What things? The creams?"

"Yeah - what are they FOR?"

"Well - some people think that if they use certain creams, it will help them look young."

"Why?"

"Well - I guess for some people, they are really concerned about the way they look and they think that if they use this cream they will look better."

"Oh."

Pause. LONG Pause.

"You don't use any of those creams."

"No honey, I don't."

"You're not like other moms."

"What? What do you mean I'm not like other moms"

"You don't care about the way you look - you don't need to look young."

"Um. Thanks Honey, I think."

F-Bombing

I have been pondering my recent downslide into who the fuck knows what - self pity? Self doubt? Inability to be successful? Rejection of human happiness? Gah. Put me in a black Victorian dress and I can kick Helena Bonham Carters ass in Sweeney Todd. I'll make you a meat pie, mother fucker.

I am going to call my psychiatrists office and make an appointment. I am wondering if my med dose is too low and I am experienceing a mild depression. Of course the endless fucking winter in Montreal isn't exactly helping things.

Did I mention my vow today to use fuck and it's derivitive as much as humanly fucking possible?

Or my new obsession with the Savage love podcast? If you aren't listening to him, then you should be. Not just for his creative and unique way of finding new and fucking amazing descriptors for sexual acts and fluids - my personal fave? "Tabula fucking semen Rasa" but his amazing common sense and simple straightforwardness. Seriously. Sometimes, between TWC and DSS pictures, I can't take humanity anymore.

Makes me want to grip my head and scream "AHAHHAHAHAHHHH YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME!!!!", and then run up and down the classrooms I inhabit, and call people out for their bullshit.

And have I mentioned how fucking much I love you people out there in bloggy land. Because I do, even as I hide under my quilt eating carbs and yelling "Stop looking at me!" and your sensible voices remind me that I am loveable and maybe even fucking funny - particularly when I don't FEEL very fucking Funny.

Plus, the school term is coming to it's inevitable fucking end and not even near fucking soon enough. Seriously - I do not know who I ass fucked in a previous life to have this kind of semester, but I was clearly some kind of sadistic son of a bitch to get saddled with some of this huge stinking heaps of cat shit.

And speaking of shit - some animal decided to shit on my porch and I had to pick it up. Can I tell you how fucking gross it is to have to pick up unknown animal shit on your fire escape? This was after being woken by my husband and told that I had to go and clean this animal shit up, since that is my "department".

Department? I didn't see that in the wife job description. No one ever announced to me that I was the official "unknown shit picker upper". Fuck. It was cold and slimy and disgusting. Then he asked me to identify the shit - like I am getting a degree in shit identification. I am the new animal shit CSI unit, apparently. Give me a call if you need shit idenitified. Fuck the education degree - I am the shit whisperer.

And finally, since I am on an unholy fucking rant. I would like to call out Scotia Banque. Yeah Scotia Banque scrot teller who - after looking at me for a full fucking YEAR - decided last week that he was unsure of my identity and that he would have to enforce a bank policy to hold my paycheck for 5 fucking days.

Furthermore, Soctia Banque Scrot - when you asked me if any of the other tellers "knew me" and I pointed at each and said things like "Yeah - he's the guy who makes a lot of jokes that I don't particularly find funny", and "he's the guy the elderly dude was screaming at last week"....You totally know that I am not taking your bullshit answer for granted - right? You know that I plan on marching up to your window tomorrow and presenting myself and my check to you? I wonder if you'll fucking remember me then? I know you have customer fucking service calling me every day since I threatened to pull my account from your fucking bank. I can't wait to see you again. How pleasant for all of us.

And now? Now I have to go and fucking film a fucking puppet show.

No, I am not fucking kidding.

Look at ME! I'm Hideous!!

It is done.

I am exhausted.

I didn't sleep last night. Not because I am camera shy - quite the opposite. I can put on a decent front and smile, doing my song and dance. That is, however, the effect of years of concentrated effort. Masking the introvert with the Extrovert. The simultaneous demand that you LOOK AT ME and PAY ATTENTION coupled with the intense need to be left the fuck alone.

Holy Mixed Messages, Batman.

While I survived it, I am still conflicted about why I feel this way and why I even care why I feel this way. (cue sappy music) Some of it feels eerily similar to my retreat at BlogHer last summer. The one where I hid in my room for nearly a day plus?

Maybe it's because I am still not sure WHAT I want to be when I grow up as a Blogger. I don't want to have obligations to readers or feelings of guilt when I don't get time to read other peoples blogs. Or even when I notice that my "Bloglines" thingy went down ages ago and that is why the little doodad in the corner of my computer screen hasn't popped up in, oh, lets just say two months.....

I have never come to terms with my fierce need to both belong and my complete resistance to the perceived expectations of others.

Talk about two counterproductive urges.

My mother has frequently told me that I was a child who refused to do anything easily. If there was pain and suffering to be wrung from any experience...I seemed hell bent on wringing the bejesus out of it. Maybe this is the same. Maybe you do like me and I am trying to find a reason why you Don't or shouldn't like me.

It might be easier if I just wrote you a note with a:

"Do you like me?

Yes ( )
or
No ( )


and slipped it into your locker.

And now? I am mixing myself a drink.
Cause alcohol sometimes is the right answer.

Wierded Out

This may be the best way to describe my feelings about being interviewed.

We Bloggers tend to be odd, solitary creatures - rarely identified in the Open ocean of society. Our funny, sarcastic conversations take place mainly in our heads.

I hope I can seem like I have my shit vaguely together. Oh, and that my unmanageable hair behaves. Just a little. I am a girl after all.

I'll fill you in on my surreal journey later.

(P.S. Fox Business News - today between 11 and Noon. I'll be in a red dress. You know, so the bulls will see me)

She HAS been looking at me strangley

Waking last night from my cough riddled sleep, I stumbled out of my bedroom towards the bathroom.

As I looked to my left, I see La Chatte staring, transfixed, at the television.

I pay this no mind as I am intent on getting to the bathroom to swig more cough syrup.

As I exit the bathroom, I stare at the cat - who is not even looking in my direction - so fixated is she on absorbing the images she views.

I croak: "Whatcha watching?" to Terrance.

"Grindhouse - and the cat hasn't moved since it came on."

I go back to bed, vaguely worried about La Chatte's unique interest in "Death Proof", as I suspect she really is planning to bump us off.

Other cats? Watch squirrels or birds. Mine? Grindhouse.

Tease

Someone might be interviewed on a National Television News Program this week talking about the business of blogging.

I wonder who it could be.....