Three years ago today I packed my children and my flaming minivan and left. I have written about it, I have bitched about it, I have toasted it, I have cried about it, I have joyfully recounted it, but ya know what? Not tonight. Tonight is purely reflection of what I am doing now and if I think I am doing it alright. Just a reflection. Like a really good mirror. Not like one of those mirrors you find in a discount department store like Ross (NOT Loehmans. Ever.) which shows every detail of cellulite and ages me twelve years, but rather a soft glowy reflection of me that I actually like. Like the pictures of me that my webcam takes. I don't mean this to sound dirty, really. My webcam takes the best pictures of me. Seriously, I have no idea why. I know longer question it, I just enjoy it. I tried an experiment once where I posed exactly the same and took a picture with my webcam, my camera and my cell phone and let me tell you, I am one hot mama on my webcam. Now, don’t get the wrong idea, I am not sexting photos of myself from my webcam. Maybe flirxting them, but definitely not sexting them. I am not a professional sports player nor a male member of congress, so really…
Anyway, I am digressing now. A reflection. What has Ms Levine learned in the last three years. Hmmm…
I can kill bugs all by myself. I can install a TV without having to flirt with the cable guy. I can host a birthday party and go way over the top and still feel good about it. I can walk around naked (when my children are not home) and not be afraid of the mirror. I can multi-task while a five year old sits on my lap. I can almost balance my checkbook. Almost. I can lesson plan, dinner plan, playdate plan, date plan and can plan a do-nothing day. I can do all of those in one day too. I can survive on four hours of sleep for an extended period of time. Although that one makes me cranky by the fourth day. I can bring home the turkey bacon; fry it up in a pan and never let you forget you’re a man...
Let’s see, what else? I can explain death and sex to children even when I don’t totally understand either of them myself. I can find the perfect way to say I care about you and yet I can never find my keys.I can make things aaaaaall better with a kiss. I can carry a sick kid while wearing three inch heels and not trip over my shoes or drop him. I can have me-time and no longer feel guilty. I can forgive others and even myself. I can make fifty cupcakes and not lose my mind. I can deal with paying a babysitter a fortune because at the end of the day I know I will be tucking my children in. I can find patience when I need to and lose my patience when I don’t want to. I can unclog a toilet. I can validate myself. I can rail at god and the universe and still know she likes me. I can do more than I ever thought I could do all by myself. And with all of this, I still cannot manage to find my stupid flaming minivan in the Whole Foods parking lot.
I am still learning, forever learning, repeating mistakes and learning from them again. I will probably make a few more mistakes. Yep, just a few more. I may make good choices for my children and silly choices for myself but it all evens out. I am realizing that I am not that big of a pain in the ass and perhaps, just perhaps am pretty great. I am also learning that even when I am not so sure of it, something or someone comes along to tell me I am pretty great. But really, when it comes down to it, there are only two people in the world who validate me more than anyone when they tell me I'm great; and they are still shorter than me.
Getting through it, making it count and making it last. Three years, lots of lessons and plenty more to come. As long as I keep learning, keep realizing my potential and stop bumping my head on things I think I should be just fine.
I think Maya Angelou said it best: “We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty.”
I like bug references. But only when they don’t crawl through my windows.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Axe-wielding maniacs and other family members
I am in Minneapolis right now. Well, actually St. Paul at my sister’s house. My children are still asleep because of the two hour time difference. My body seems to think it's a Tuesday and woke up when my alarm normally goes off. Of course, it’s 8am here so it feels like it’s later. Emphasis on FEELS later. But I am good at convincing myself of things that don’t exist, so that works for me. I often convince myself that I am really twenty-six, that the smushy-ness on my belly is really attractive, or that popcorn is a vegetable. I can convince myself that four hours of sleep is adequate, that teachers are actually appreciated and that french fries are a vegetable.
My sister’s house is very quiet right now because only one out of my three nephews is home. The other two are at summer camp. Don’t get me wrong, I love my nephews, but damn it is quiet. My kids asleep, no one yelling, no sports playing on TV. It’s almost like a vacation...
I do love when all of my nephews and my children are playing together. My kids look up to their older cousins and they all actually get along. Plus my kids learn some new and interesting phrases from my nephews...
It makes me want to see if we could move Minnesota a little closer to California. Maybe like have it switch places with Nevada?
I also love Minnesota in the summer because it is hot and sticky-humid and it has been raining with thunder and lightening for the past two days. The air smells yummy and everything is Ireland green. Not like Los Angeles, where when it rains it smells like a mixture of wet-dog-pollution-homeless-people-urine-gasoline-litter and car exhaust. You can taste the smell of the rain in Los Angeles and it gets stuck in your nose. So, you can see why I love the rain in Minnesota. All yummy and fresh and smells like home...
The thunder and lightening was cool until it woke me up at like, 4am. I ran into the living room where I had assumed my children would be clamoring for their mommy but they were sound asleep. My heart was pounding in my throat and I decided to sleep on the other couch next to my kids, ya know, to keep them safe during the storm. Not that I was scared or anything and wanted to be near other people so I wouldn’t feel alone during a scary storm. Nope. I was totally brave. No, really.
Of course, then I began to imagine every horror movie I had ever seen that involved a thunder storm. I kept imagining that moment where the lightening flashes and you see the axe-wielding maniac standing there...waiting for you. I kept visualizing every horror movie from the 1980’s that I was forced to see on dates in high school. I think the boys back then thought they would get some action if the girl screamed and hid in their shoulder during the scary part of a movie. The girls knew about this, by the way. We liked that we knew we’d be getting a little action if we played the “oh, I’m so scared, please protect me” role. Ah, teenage games we probably still play...
I used to love playing the “no, I have no idea that you are trying to cop a feel” role as a young lass. Sometimes I miss the coy-girl role because you could get away with so much more. I have big brown eyes so if I make them widen it looks like I am surprised or just a little taken aback by my date’s overtures. I have long eye lashes too so if I bat them it’s like I’m a female Bambi. That crap doesn’t seem to work anymore as a grownup. Just straight forwardness now. Whatever. I guess straightforwardness is better. Maybe...
Maybe I will try to be more teenage-coy and see what happens. Ya know, like an experiment. I could pretend I have no idea there is a kiss approaching me and see what happens. Act all surprised and stuff. Hmmm...that could be fun. Like an experiment for my blog. Now I need some unsuspecting test subjects that wouldn’t mind being in my experiment. Know anyone? No, seriously.
My sister’s house is very quiet right now because only one out of my three nephews is home. The other two are at summer camp. Don’t get me wrong, I love my nephews, but damn it is quiet. My kids asleep, no one yelling, no sports playing on TV. It’s almost like a vacation...
I do love when all of my nephews and my children are playing together. My kids look up to their older cousins and they all actually get along. Plus my kids learn some new and interesting phrases from my nephews...
It makes me want to see if we could move Minnesota a little closer to California. Maybe like have it switch places with Nevada?
I also love Minnesota in the summer because it is hot and sticky-humid and it has been raining with thunder and lightening for the past two days. The air smells yummy and everything is Ireland green. Not like Los Angeles, where when it rains it smells like a mixture of wet-dog-pollution-homeless-people-urine-gasoline-litter and car exhaust. You can taste the smell of the rain in Los Angeles and it gets stuck in your nose. So, you can see why I love the rain in Minnesota. All yummy and fresh and smells like home...
The thunder and lightening was cool until it woke me up at like, 4am. I ran into the living room where I had assumed my children would be clamoring for their mommy but they were sound asleep. My heart was pounding in my throat and I decided to sleep on the other couch next to my kids, ya know, to keep them safe during the storm. Not that I was scared or anything and wanted to be near other people so I wouldn’t feel alone during a scary storm. Nope. I was totally brave. No, really.
Of course, then I began to imagine every horror movie I had ever seen that involved a thunder storm. I kept imagining that moment where the lightening flashes and you see the axe-wielding maniac standing there...waiting for you. I kept visualizing every horror movie from the 1980’s that I was forced to see on dates in high school. I think the boys back then thought they would get some action if the girl screamed and hid in their shoulder during the scary part of a movie. The girls knew about this, by the way. We liked that we knew we’d be getting a little action if we played the “oh, I’m so scared, please protect me” role. Ah, teenage games we probably still play...
I used to love playing the “no, I have no idea that you are trying to cop a feel” role as a young lass. Sometimes I miss the coy-girl role because you could get away with so much more. I have big brown eyes so if I make them widen it looks like I am surprised or just a little taken aback by my date’s overtures. I have long eye lashes too so if I bat them it’s like I’m a female Bambi. That crap doesn’t seem to work anymore as a grownup. Just straight forwardness now. Whatever. I guess straightforwardness is better. Maybe...
Maybe I will try to be more teenage-coy and see what happens. Ya know, like an experiment. I could pretend I have no idea there is a kiss approaching me and see what happens. Act all surprised and stuff. Hmmm...that could be fun. Like an experiment for my blog. Now I need some unsuspecting test subjects that wouldn’t mind being in my experiment. Know anyone? No, seriously.
Friday, July 8, 2011
If I could have anything I wished for…
If I could have anything I wished for, my children would stay exactly this age but learn how to do laundry.
If I could have anything I wished for, cars would get better with age.
If I could have anything I wished for, teachers would be millionaires and senators would make under $50,000 per year.
If I could have anything I wished for, girls would think science classes made them sexy. And boys would agree.
If I could have anything I wished for, cookies would have the same calories as carrots.
If I could have anything I wished for, cats would not come with claws.
If I could have anything I wished for, people who were mean to you would spontaneously combust.
If I could have anything I wished for, Manolo Blahniks would be sold at Payless.
If I could have anything I wished for, lawyers would charge $25 per hour.
If I could have anything I wished for, men would turn into Rocky Road ice cream after sex.
If I could have anything I wished for, manicures and pedicures would be covered by insurance.
If I could have anything I wished for, there would be no whining (only wine).
If I could have anything I wished for, UV rays would make skin look younger.
If I could have anything I wished for, men would think insecurities were hot.
If I could have anything I wished for, people would buy my book.
If I could have anything I wished for, high heels would never hurt.
If I could have anything I wished for, Minneapolis would be two miles away from Los Angeles.
If I could have anything I wished for, cellulite would be a prerequisite for a super-model.
If I could have anything I wished for, my children would get full rides to Harvard or Yale. Or USC.
If I could have anything I wished for, a Master’s degree would increase one’s salary exponentially.
If I could have anything I wished for, one’s salary would increase by simply knowing what the word “exponentially” meant.
If I could have anything I wished for, Kate Spade purses would be available at Target and always on clearance.
If I could have anything I wished for, a teacher discount would count at Nordstrom.
If I could have anything I wished for, wars would be fought with Pillow Pets.
If I could have anything I wished for, important decisions would be made with the help of a Magic 8-Ball.
If I could have anything I wished for, the whole world would go to therapy.
If I could have anything I wished for, New York Bagels would be possible to make in Los Angeles and still taste the same.
If I could have anything I wished for, pizza would make you taller.
If I could have anything I wished for, the weather would match my mood.
If I could have anything I wished for, the smart kids would know better.
If I could have anything I wished for, left would always win over right; and good would always triumph over evil.
If I could have anything I wished for, there would be a sound track for everyday life.
If I could have anything I wished for, exercise could be done telepathically.
If I could have anything I wished for, I would live forever but stop aging right...about...now.
If I could have anything I wished for, cars would get better with age.
If I could have anything I wished for, teachers would be millionaires and senators would make under $50,000 per year.
If I could have anything I wished for, girls would think science classes made them sexy. And boys would agree.
If I could have anything I wished for, cookies would have the same calories as carrots.
If I could have anything I wished for, cats would not come with claws.
If I could have anything I wished for, people who were mean to you would spontaneously combust.
If I could have anything I wished for, Manolo Blahniks would be sold at Payless.
If I could have anything I wished for, lawyers would charge $25 per hour.
If I could have anything I wished for, men would turn into Rocky Road ice cream after sex.
If I could have anything I wished for, manicures and pedicures would be covered by insurance.
If I could have anything I wished for, there would be no whining (only wine).
If I could have anything I wished for, UV rays would make skin look younger.
If I could have anything I wished for, men would think insecurities were hot.
If I could have anything I wished for, people would buy my book.
If I could have anything I wished for, high heels would never hurt.
If I could have anything I wished for, Minneapolis would be two miles away from Los Angeles.
If I could have anything I wished for, cellulite would be a prerequisite for a super-model.
If I could have anything I wished for, my children would get full rides to Harvard or Yale. Or USC.
If I could have anything I wished for, a Master’s degree would increase one’s salary exponentially.
If I could have anything I wished for, one’s salary would increase by simply knowing what the word “exponentially” meant.
If I could have anything I wished for, Kate Spade purses would be available at Target and always on clearance.
If I could have anything I wished for, a teacher discount would count at Nordstrom.
If I could have anything I wished for, wars would be fought with Pillow Pets.
If I could have anything I wished for, important decisions would be made with the help of a Magic 8-Ball.
If I could have anything I wished for, the whole world would go to therapy.
If I could have anything I wished for, New York Bagels would be possible to make in Los Angeles and still taste the same.
If I could have anything I wished for, pizza would make you taller.
If I could have anything I wished for, the weather would match my mood.
If I could have anything I wished for, the smart kids would know better.
If I could have anything I wished for, left would always win over right; and good would always triumph over evil.
If I could have anything I wished for, there would be a sound track for everyday life.
If I could have anything I wished for, exercise could be done telepathically.
If I could have anything I wished for, I would live forever but stop aging right...about...now.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Justifying my rationalizations
I find that I rationalize and justify most of the choices in my life. Sometimes if you sit near me while I am making a difficult decision, you can hear my mind whirring and spinning like one of Rube Goldberg's Inventions. I think, why should I? Why shouldn’t I? How could I? How couldn’t I? And it goes on from there. Then I rationalize my best and do what I want to do. Yep, seems to work for me. Well, most of the time.
If there are shoes on sale, that are say 60% off, it’s really a no-brainer. Let’s face it, shoes make me happy. There! Rationalized and purchased. Cute boys that I should just wait until they call or text me first…naw. Life is short. I have very little free time. I wanna. Done! Justified and texted. Yes, other life choices are more difficult and some more mundane but I find when I use the word “organic” in front of some of them or just preface the crap out of a choice or just go to the gym the next day; that seems to work for me. Because let’s face it, we only justify stuff to make ourselves feel better. And we all do it.
My five year old son, Dash, has strep throat right now. He is asleep in my bed tonight and his brother is at their dad’s house. I just could not justify bringing him to his dad's and not being with him until there was no fever and he was slightly less contagious then yesterday. Saturday night is the night I have without my kids. Yes, tonight was supposed to be my grown-up-non-mom-night where I get to do grown-up-non-mom-stuff that does not involve the phrase, “stop touching that” or “please stop tormenting the cat”. Well, if it’s kinda a crappy date, the first phrase might be used…
Anyway, the mom-gene kicked in and thus an afternoon of sniffles, swollen glands, art projects and Xbox commenced. By the way, I totally suck at video games. I’m not sure if it is just because I’m a girl or just because I seem to have absolutely no hand-eye-coordination; but seriously, I kept driving off the road in the Cars game and kept being eaten by crocodiles in the Lego Indiana Jones game. I could rationalize my non-skill by saying that in the 1970’s the first video game I played was Pong. Ya know the one that had two little lines and a little square you hit back and forth between you and your sister while trash talking really slowly because it took forever for the little square to actually be hit back and forth? Blip……..bloop……..blip……..bloop bloop……..blip. I think I fell asleep once while playing it. Perhaps, just perhaps, my eye-hand coordination just never progressed passed Pong. Sad really.
As I was saying, Saturday night is usually my one night away from my boys; which always seems bittersweet and although it might be yummy as chocolate, bittersweet is more bitter than sweet. I do need that night to recharge my batteries, get some actual sleep and have a conversation that does not revolve around Legos. Part of me felt like a horrible mother for being disappointed in not getting to go to a grownup movie and out to dinner. But I can justify my horrible selfish mom feeling: The past two weekends, I have had my kids on Saturday night. So really the only free time I have had is being stuck in traffic while driving to work. It’s much further than my regular teaching gig. On Thursday, it took me an hour to get home. I love LA. So, I guess I will just make the stuck-in-traffic-time my down time. Crap. Ya see, with Dash getting sick and this new arduous schedule of summer school waaaaaaaay out in San Gabriel, and some other stress not worth mentioning I think I really did need a night to myself. I can justify that by saying that when I get some time to myself I am a better and more patient mom the next day when I get my kids back. It’s sort of like the yellow oxygen mask on an airplane. You are supposed to put it on yourself before you help the people who can’t put it on themselves. Ya know, take of yourself so you are able to take care of others. So, now that Dash’s fever seems to have broken and the antibiotics have kicked in, I’m thinking…a good work out, a steam and a mani-pedi and I will be as good as new. Ready to be there for my munchkins. Mani-pedi. Oxygen mask. Same diff. Yes, I have some time to myself tomorrow. I think an afternoon reading poolside while feeling bloated in my bikini is the way for me to go. I don’t have to justify that one. Do I?
Because Dash was sick, there was a Target trip involved this morning after our doctor visit. And let me tell you, I can totally justify the amount of money I spent at Target based on the idea that we needed cool art projects to do today cuz the little strep-kid wasn’t allowed out of the house today. No contact with other kids. So a pirate’s ship to build and some ceramic kitties and doggies to paint seemed important. Otherwise we would have watched every episode of Phineas and Ferb ever created. Not that that is a bad thing. It’s actually one of the few cartoons my kids watch that I enjoy. But after five episodes, it tends to wear down one’s soul. Of course, along with Phineas and Ferb, I was also forced to watch The Care Bears Movie. It’s like bears wrapped in sugar and dipped in honey and milk chocolate and lithium but not in a good way.
And just as a further justification on my Target shopping: I might as well just buy all the other Target stuff I need so I wouldn’t have to go back there tomorrow. Although I forgot a few things so I will be heading back there in the next day or so anyway. It wouldn’t be a week in my life without a trip to Target. I just really need to try to remember to ONLY buy the things I specifically came in to buy because that takes some serious rationalizations and justifications when that happens.
I noticed something about Dash today while our ceramic kitties and doggies where drying (mine is pink). There is this strange phenomenon which occurs when Dash is just with me and not with his seven year old brother, Max. When we watch a movie, just the two of us, he tends to pick a film that is truly age appropriate for him. He essentially gets to act like the five year old he is and doesn’t have to try to keep up with his big brother. Although The Care Bears Movie made me fall asleep in the first ten minutes, Dash was happy. I think I forced myself to fall asleep before my head exploded from the sheer cute and cuddliness of the bears. Now if we could combine the crocodiles from the Lego Indiana Jones Xbox game with the Care Bears…I would have stayed awake for that.
Dash can justify his movie choice because no one is around to dispute his choices. His brother is a mile away watching Bakugan save the universe and acting it out as he watches it. I have never seen a child move so much while watching television. He is the opposite of a couch potato. He’s more of a hot potato. Anyway, tonight Dash could just sit back and relax and enjoy being five and not once did he ask me tonight when he was going to be six. He needed no justification of movies, no rationalization of choices. He just snuggled into my arms, wiped his nose on my shirt and fell asleep dreaming of Care Bears.
There are a few things however one should never rationalize or justify. Stealing a parking spot from someone at the Whole Foods parking lot (you know who you are); cheating on a test in school; and buying condoms at the 99 Cent store. Don’t even try to justify that last one. Seriously.
If there are shoes on sale, that are say 60% off, it’s really a no-brainer. Let’s face it, shoes make me happy. There! Rationalized and purchased. Cute boys that I should just wait until they call or text me first…naw. Life is short. I have very little free time. I wanna. Done! Justified and texted. Yes, other life choices are more difficult and some more mundane but I find when I use the word “organic” in front of some of them or just preface the crap out of a choice or just go to the gym the next day; that seems to work for me. Because let’s face it, we only justify stuff to make ourselves feel better. And we all do it.
My five year old son, Dash, has strep throat right now. He is asleep in my bed tonight and his brother is at their dad’s house. I just could not justify bringing him to his dad's and not being with him until there was no fever and he was slightly less contagious then yesterday. Saturday night is the night I have without my kids. Yes, tonight was supposed to be my grown-up-non-mom-night where I get to do grown-up-non-mom-stuff that does not involve the phrase, “stop touching that” or “please stop tormenting the cat”. Well, if it’s kinda a crappy date, the first phrase might be used…
Anyway, the mom-gene kicked in and thus an afternoon of sniffles, swollen glands, art projects and Xbox commenced. By the way, I totally suck at video games. I’m not sure if it is just because I’m a girl or just because I seem to have absolutely no hand-eye-coordination; but seriously, I kept driving off the road in the Cars game and kept being eaten by crocodiles in the Lego Indiana Jones game. I could rationalize my non-skill by saying that in the 1970’s the first video game I played was Pong. Ya know the one that had two little lines and a little square you hit back and forth between you and your sister while trash talking really slowly because it took forever for the little square to actually be hit back and forth? Blip……..bloop……..blip……..bloop bloop……..blip. I think I fell asleep once while playing it. Perhaps, just perhaps, my eye-hand coordination just never progressed passed Pong. Sad really.
As I was saying, Saturday night is usually my one night away from my boys; which always seems bittersweet and although it might be yummy as chocolate, bittersweet is more bitter than sweet. I do need that night to recharge my batteries, get some actual sleep and have a conversation that does not revolve around Legos. Part of me felt like a horrible mother for being disappointed in not getting to go to a grownup movie and out to dinner. But I can justify my horrible selfish mom feeling: The past two weekends, I have had my kids on Saturday night. So really the only free time I have had is being stuck in traffic while driving to work. It’s much further than my regular teaching gig. On Thursday, it took me an hour to get home. I love LA. So, I guess I will just make the stuck-in-traffic-time my down time. Crap. Ya see, with Dash getting sick and this new arduous schedule of summer school waaaaaaaay out in San Gabriel, and some other stress not worth mentioning I think I really did need a night to myself. I can justify that by saying that when I get some time to myself I am a better and more patient mom the next day when I get my kids back. It’s sort of like the yellow oxygen mask on an airplane. You are supposed to put it on yourself before you help the people who can’t put it on themselves. Ya know, take of yourself so you are able to take care of others. So, now that Dash’s fever seems to have broken and the antibiotics have kicked in, I’m thinking…a good work out, a steam and a mani-pedi and I will be as good as new. Ready to be there for my munchkins. Mani-pedi. Oxygen mask. Same diff. Yes, I have some time to myself tomorrow. I think an afternoon reading poolside while feeling bloated in my bikini is the way for me to go. I don’t have to justify that one. Do I?
Because Dash was sick, there was a Target trip involved this morning after our doctor visit. And let me tell you, I can totally justify the amount of money I spent at Target based on the idea that we needed cool art projects to do today cuz the little strep-kid wasn’t allowed out of the house today. No contact with other kids. So a pirate’s ship to build and some ceramic kitties and doggies to paint seemed important. Otherwise we would have watched every episode of Phineas and Ferb ever created. Not that that is a bad thing. It’s actually one of the few cartoons my kids watch that I enjoy. But after five episodes, it tends to wear down one’s soul. Of course, along with Phineas and Ferb, I was also forced to watch The Care Bears Movie. It’s like bears wrapped in sugar and dipped in honey and milk chocolate and lithium but not in a good way.
And just as a further justification on my Target shopping: I might as well just buy all the other Target stuff I need so I wouldn’t have to go back there tomorrow. Although I forgot a few things so I will be heading back there in the next day or so anyway. It wouldn’t be a week in my life without a trip to Target. I just really need to try to remember to ONLY buy the things I specifically came in to buy because that takes some serious rationalizations and justifications when that happens.
I noticed something about Dash today while our ceramic kitties and doggies where drying (mine is pink). There is this strange phenomenon which occurs when Dash is just with me and not with his seven year old brother, Max. When we watch a movie, just the two of us, he tends to pick a film that is truly age appropriate for him. He essentially gets to act like the five year old he is and doesn’t have to try to keep up with his big brother. Although The Care Bears Movie made me fall asleep in the first ten minutes, Dash was happy. I think I forced myself to fall asleep before my head exploded from the sheer cute and cuddliness of the bears. Now if we could combine the crocodiles from the Lego Indiana Jones Xbox game with the Care Bears…I would have stayed awake for that.
Dash can justify his movie choice because no one is around to dispute his choices. His brother is a mile away watching Bakugan save the universe and acting it out as he watches it. I have never seen a child move so much while watching television. He is the opposite of a couch potato. He’s more of a hot potato. Anyway, tonight Dash could just sit back and relax and enjoy being five and not once did he ask me tonight when he was going to be six. He needed no justification of movies, no rationalization of choices. He just snuggled into my arms, wiped his nose on my shirt and fell asleep dreaming of Care Bears.
There are a few things however one should never rationalize or justify. Stealing a parking spot from someone at the Whole Foods parking lot (you know who you are); cheating on a test in school; and buying condoms at the 99 Cent store. Don’t even try to justify that last one. Seriously.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Spelunking in my girlie parts
Ahh, the gynecologist. Nothing says fun like the phrase, “scooch down please”.
As we, as women (well, duh, like a dude is going to go to the gyno) age, having our girlie parts spelunked in becomes just more and more enjoyable. Period, babies, menopause, and then death. I’m sugar coating it a bit…
We start by getting our periods, which nowadays thanks to hormone-ladened-genetically-modified food, comes earlier and earlier. This first frightens the bajeezus out of us and then we tolerate them. Then, we are confused by them and then miss them. Well, we miss the thought of them. Okay, maybe not. I still have mine, so check back with me in a few years and I will let you know if I miss them. I am guessing no.
On July 13, 1980 I got my period for the first time. As all women do, I remember the exact moment. That wonderfully, dauntingly, awful and extraordinary moment of my first step into womanhood. Of course, I was up at my friend Josh’s parent’s cabin without my mother. Yep. Eleven o’clock at night I look down and the first thought was, “Oh my god, I’m dying!!!” The second thought was, “I want my mommy.” Try sharing a room with a prepubescent boy when you both are thirteen and having his mom explain this particular rite of passage to you without the prepubescent boy finding out. Ugh, the thought of Josh knowing that I had, well, ya know, become a woman in his presence was just more than my own pubescent self could handle. I don’t think he ever found out, which was good for both of us. I am guessing he really had no desire to know that Aunt Flow was visiting his parent’s cabin as well.
Then of course the whole teenage hormonal-thing totally sucks. I just read this article which explained how when female chimpanzees hit puberty they up and leave the chimpanzee nest. Or tree. If they don't want to leave, the parents just kick them out. This seems to cut down on fighting between the teenage females and the parental females. Sometimes I think my mom would have preferred sending my sister and me off somewhere during those particular years. Oh hey, that was what summer camp was for.
My mom was pretty great while we were burgeoning woman. In retrospect, she had a lot of patience for us. My dad traveled often for business, which was a wise idea. Having three premenstrual women in the house at the same time would make any man travel a lot. My mom volunteered for Planned Parenthood back then which made talking to her easy. I think she enjoyed the closeness we felt for her. I think some of my friends were envious of the relationship I had back then with her as well as the one I have nowadays with her. She was always good at finding the right thing to say to us. Well, most of the time. The past is always more romantic when you view it from twenty years past. The best thing she ever told me about sex was, “If you have to ask yourself a question more than once, most likely the answer is no.” Of course listening to yourself is the hard part. You keep hearing yourself think, “this is a baaaaad idea” and yet…well, learning from one’s mistakes is part of growing up too. I guess that means I am still growing up. Crap.
My mom could also always find the coolest cards for every occasion. I bring this up because she still does this. She actually found a little plaque for me that read, “She packed up her potential and all she had leaned, grabbed a cute pair of shoes and headed out to change a few things.” She just sent this to me. Like, two days ago. I love it. At first, I thought she had had it made for me and was a little let down when she told me she bought it in an airport. Because who else could this plaque possibly be meant for?!?! Seriously, I actually packed up my potential and my cute shoes and actually headed out and changed some stuff. I do like that I have a little plaque hanging on the fridge that validates this idea of what I did and what I have changed. But now I am forced to wonder who else has one of these plaques…hmmm…
So, back to the road map of woman. Babies. Then we decide to have babies which cause several things to happen. First, strange and magical things happen to our bodies as we grow a person in our bellies. Most things women won’t tell you because we want the human species to continue. We don’t want to scare the younger girls. Actually, if we did share this info with some promiscuous teenage girls they might use more birth control. I won’t go into details here because there are guys who read what I write and I want them to continue to read my blog. Also, the mothers who are reading this already know what these “magical” things are. They can just giggle, nod, roll their eyes and I will continue writing. Where was I? Oh yeah. Secondly, all modesty goes out the window when you give birth. You will have a nurse or three, doctors, interns, residents getting a peek at the crowning baby and you sooooo don’t care that you haven’t waxed in six months. Which is good. This way you can focus on pushing out a baby. (yes, ow.) Thirdly, this thing called “pregnancy head” happens where you can’t remember anything. That side effect doesn’t seem to go away. Now I refer to it as “momnesia” and my mom calls it a “senior moment”. I have also heard it referred to as “CRS” and for the life of me I can’t remember what the hell that stands for.
Anyway, after babies, you hit your forties and all hell breaks loose. Although the whole myth of the sexual peak seems to be true, so it’s not all bad.
In our forties, we start getting hormonal. Well, more hormonal than we used to be. Things like pimples occur which is, like, come on, I have crow’s feet and wrinkles now? Seriously? Maybe it’s not so much the hormones that are affecting me but rather the physical side effects from the hormones that are just pissing me off. Pimples, skin that used to be tight and is now squishy, wrinkles, weird periods, having something snipped out of your uterus, these things would piss off the happiest person. Yes, before all of these raging hormones I was a cheerful, sprightly optimist with a song in my heart. No, really. Whatever.
Oh! "Can't Remember Shit" That's what CRS stands for. I feel better now.
Anyway, the plaque my mom sent arrived on the afternoon I arrived home after having a biopsy. Nothing to worry about, kind and concerned readers, just a precaution. As my gyno put it, I am forty-three. End of story. Hopefully, the end of story, but I am not that worried. Three other women I know around my age just had biopsies also (and were just fine) and I hate feeling left out. I’m such a conformist. Or rather my girlie parts are. Two years ago I had my left ovary removed. Which kinda sucks cuz now I lean a little to the right and I am a staunch Democratic. (badumpah).
So, during my doctor appointment, I actually used the phrase, “Hey, before you go spelunking in my uterus, I have a few questions” to my gynecologist. She liked that. My gynecologist is super cool, around my age, a woman, and has the same sense of humor as I do. It makes being spelunked in a bit easier to take. I thought it make a good title for my blog. Then I started thinking of all of the crap we go through and then the plaque arrived. And there ya go.
Yes, I just justified my blog. I had to. I couldn’t remember what the hell I was writing about. Now it makes sense. Well, it makes sense to me…
As we, as women (well, duh, like a dude is going to go to the gyno) age, having our girlie parts spelunked in becomes just more and more enjoyable. Period, babies, menopause, and then death. I’m sugar coating it a bit…
We start by getting our periods, which nowadays thanks to hormone-ladened-genetically-modified food, comes earlier and earlier. This first frightens the bajeezus out of us and then we tolerate them. Then, we are confused by them and then miss them. Well, we miss the thought of them. Okay, maybe not. I still have mine, so check back with me in a few years and I will let you know if I miss them. I am guessing no.
On July 13, 1980 I got my period for the first time. As all women do, I remember the exact moment. That wonderfully, dauntingly, awful and extraordinary moment of my first step into womanhood. Of course, I was up at my friend Josh’s parent’s cabin without my mother. Yep. Eleven o’clock at night I look down and the first thought was, “Oh my god, I’m dying!!!” The second thought was, “I want my mommy.” Try sharing a room with a prepubescent boy when you both are thirteen and having his mom explain this particular rite of passage to you without the prepubescent boy finding out. Ugh, the thought of Josh knowing that I had, well, ya know, become a woman in his presence was just more than my own pubescent self could handle. I don’t think he ever found out, which was good for both of us. I am guessing he really had no desire to know that Aunt Flow was visiting his parent’s cabin as well.
Then of course the whole teenage hormonal-thing totally sucks. I just read this article which explained how when female chimpanzees hit puberty they up and leave the chimpanzee nest. Or tree. If they don't want to leave, the parents just kick them out. This seems to cut down on fighting between the teenage females and the parental females. Sometimes I think my mom would have preferred sending my sister and me off somewhere during those particular years. Oh hey, that was what summer camp was for.
My mom was pretty great while we were burgeoning woman. In retrospect, she had a lot of patience for us. My dad traveled often for business, which was a wise idea. Having three premenstrual women in the house at the same time would make any man travel a lot. My mom volunteered for Planned Parenthood back then which made talking to her easy. I think she enjoyed the closeness we felt for her. I think some of my friends were envious of the relationship I had back then with her as well as the one I have nowadays with her. She was always good at finding the right thing to say to us. Well, most of the time. The past is always more romantic when you view it from twenty years past. The best thing she ever told me about sex was, “If you have to ask yourself a question more than once, most likely the answer is no.” Of course listening to yourself is the hard part. You keep hearing yourself think, “this is a baaaaad idea” and yet…well, learning from one’s mistakes is part of growing up too. I guess that means I am still growing up. Crap.
My mom could also always find the coolest cards for every occasion. I bring this up because she still does this. She actually found a little plaque for me that read, “She packed up her potential and all she had leaned, grabbed a cute pair of shoes and headed out to change a few things.” She just sent this to me. Like, two days ago. I love it. At first, I thought she had had it made for me and was a little let down when she told me she bought it in an airport. Because who else could this plaque possibly be meant for?!?! Seriously, I actually packed up my potential and my cute shoes and actually headed out and changed some stuff. I do like that I have a little plaque hanging on the fridge that validates this idea of what I did and what I have changed. But now I am forced to wonder who else has one of these plaques…hmmm…
So, back to the road map of woman. Babies. Then we decide to have babies which cause several things to happen. First, strange and magical things happen to our bodies as we grow a person in our bellies. Most things women won’t tell you because we want the human species to continue. We don’t want to scare the younger girls. Actually, if we did share this info with some promiscuous teenage girls they might use more birth control. I won’t go into details here because there are guys who read what I write and I want them to continue to read my blog. Also, the mothers who are reading this already know what these “magical” things are. They can just giggle, nod, roll their eyes and I will continue writing. Where was I? Oh yeah. Secondly, all modesty goes out the window when you give birth. You will have a nurse or three, doctors, interns, residents getting a peek at the crowning baby and you sooooo don’t care that you haven’t waxed in six months. Which is good. This way you can focus on pushing out a baby. (yes, ow.) Thirdly, this thing called “pregnancy head” happens where you can’t remember anything. That side effect doesn’t seem to go away. Now I refer to it as “momnesia” and my mom calls it a “senior moment”. I have also heard it referred to as “CRS” and for the life of me I can’t remember what the hell that stands for.
Anyway, after babies, you hit your forties and all hell breaks loose. Although the whole myth of the sexual peak seems to be true, so it’s not all bad.
In our forties, we start getting hormonal. Well, more hormonal than we used to be. Things like pimples occur which is, like, come on, I have crow’s feet and wrinkles now? Seriously? Maybe it’s not so much the hormones that are affecting me but rather the physical side effects from the hormones that are just pissing me off. Pimples, skin that used to be tight and is now squishy, wrinkles, weird periods, having something snipped out of your uterus, these things would piss off the happiest person. Yes, before all of these raging hormones I was a cheerful, sprightly optimist with a song in my heart. No, really. Whatever.
Oh! "Can't Remember Shit" That's what CRS stands for. I feel better now.
Anyway, the plaque my mom sent arrived on the afternoon I arrived home after having a biopsy. Nothing to worry about, kind and concerned readers, just a precaution. As my gyno put it, I am forty-three. End of story. Hopefully, the end of story, but I am not that worried. Three other women I know around my age just had biopsies also (and were just fine) and I hate feeling left out. I’m such a conformist. Or rather my girlie parts are. Two years ago I had my left ovary removed. Which kinda sucks cuz now I lean a little to the right and I am a staunch Democratic. (badumpah).
So, during my doctor appointment, I actually used the phrase, “Hey, before you go spelunking in my uterus, I have a few questions” to my gynecologist. She liked that. My gynecologist is super cool, around my age, a woman, and has the same sense of humor as I do. It makes being spelunked in a bit easier to take. I thought it make a good title for my blog. Then I started thinking of all of the crap we go through and then the plaque arrived. And there ya go.
Yes, I just justified my blog. I had to. I couldn’t remember what the hell I was writing about. Now it makes sense. Well, it makes sense to me…
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Unzip your closure
I was talking to a friend of mine the other day who was going through one of the most annoying of breakups. Even more annoying than the breakup of my marriage; although hers didn’t have lawyers involved. The reason hers was so annoying was because the guy just disappeared. Not like abducted by aliens or deported out of the country; but rather disappeared without saying goodbye. Nothin, nada, zip, zilch. No phone call, no email, no text message, facebook message or tweet; just disappeared without so much of an explanation. I hate these men. And the thing that sucks is that, male or female, we have all been there before. All you have to do is say goodbye. Lie to us and tell us “it’s not you, it’s me” and let us move on. Seriously.
It’s not the breakup that makes people crazy. It’s the lack of breaking up during the breakup that makes us crazy.
All people have to do is let us know if we are waiting for them to deal with whatever they are dealing with or we are done waiting and now on the path to getting over them. Once we have that choice made for us, we can then get on with our lives because we know what we are getting on with. But when we get no closure, we sit there, waiting for something, some clue as to why we have been broken up with.
Closure. It’s a total therapy word that gained popularity in the 1980’s to help people deal. Deal with life, love, traumatic experiences, and sometimes, a little bit of all three. Closure helps people to move on or at least realize why they are eating a gallon of rocky road ice cream. They can justify their behavior when they are buying six pairs of shoes. They know exactly why they can’t sleep or having weird dreams that seem to symbolize their waking lives. Being up at 4am when the cat is still sleeping suddenly becomes clear and we can just feel sorry for ourselves and then the next week, we can sleep.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Shoe shopping can be used in all sorts of circumstances. Personally, when something wonderful happens to me, I like to celebrate with a pair of fabulous shoes (on sale). They say, “Woot! You are fabulous and deserve these Steve Madden sparkly purple pumps!” On the other hand, when I am totally depressed, man-related or otherwise, I like to drown my sorrows in a pair of fabulous shoes (on sale) that say, “Oh honey, don’t worry, you are fabulous and deserve these Steve Madden patent leather Mary Janes that make your legs look breathtaking.” Either way, shoes seems to make me feel happy. Oh shut up. I know several men who feel the same way about shoes. Yes, not just heels on the women they are looking at but for themselves as well. (nothin wrong with a good foot fetish) I only know a few who wear heels, but I do have a straight male friend who has more boots then I do. Of course, he does live in Seattle where shoes get ruined very often because of the rain so it’s good to have a strong collection of boots as a back up to Seattle mud. Oh look, I justified his boot collection for him. Man that is nice of me.
So basically the shoe industry wouldn’t feel a thing in the sales department if people actually gave some closure to their breakups. Trust me, I will keep it going all by myself.
Seriously, all one has to do (and seriously, I am saying male or female here) is say something, anything that makes us realize it is over. There is nothing more pathetic than waiting by the phone, refreshing your email over and over again, and waiting for something to happen. Just be a grown up and end it in a polite and civilized manner that allows us to move on. There was once where this guy I had been dating for months stopped calling and disappeared. I ran into him three months later and found out he had been bitten by a Recluse Spider and had been in the hospital for six weeks. He had been in a coma for three weeks of it and had lost twenty pounds. THAT is the only excuse for disappearance I will accept.
Now, sometimes with technology we tend to get lazy with breakups. I had a student last year who was in a long distance relationship whose girlfriend broke up with him on a text. Personally, if I could have I would have flown to her house and smacked her for that. It was horrible. It was so impersonal and icky. I hated how devastated he was by it. If someone ever broke up with me on a text, I may actually drive over to his house and smack them and I am a pacifist. I abhor violence, but a text-breakup? Seriously? Grow up. I think the amount of sincerity in a breakup should be proportionate to the amount of sincerity there was in the relationship. It’s like relationship math. Yes, I suck at math (and spelling) and yet I can figure this math problem out.
Look, all I’m sayin is when you change manicurists because they have stabbed you one too many times in the cuticle, you really don’t need to say goodbye. You can just find another manicurist. If you are forced to change medical insurance by your employer, you don’t need a face to face with your gynecologist to move on. Well, face to vagina, but whatever.
However, when you have been intimate, emotionally or physically, with someone for more than a month or two, you expect a goodbye with at least a bull shit explanation of why. Even if you don’t like us anymore, we annoy you or we have become too needy or too fraught with expectations about the relationship we thought we had; we are not asking for the Holy Grail of excuses, just a nice “I’m in a different place than you are” excuse works for most of us.
A month goes by and you sit with your friend telling her she should now delete his number off of her phone. She sighs and hits delete. The phone asks her if she really wants to delete his number. She looks into your eyes hoping you will say no, but you just offer her another glass of wine as she hits “yes”. She breathes that shaky breath and sighs again. You sigh as well, remembering the last time that happened to you...
I hoped you liked this blog. If you don’t, it’s not you…it’s me.
It’s not the breakup that makes people crazy. It’s the lack of breaking up during the breakup that makes us crazy.
All people have to do is let us know if we are waiting for them to deal with whatever they are dealing with or we are done waiting and now on the path to getting over them. Once we have that choice made for us, we can then get on with our lives because we know what we are getting on with. But when we get no closure, we sit there, waiting for something, some clue as to why we have been broken up with.
Closure. It’s a total therapy word that gained popularity in the 1980’s to help people deal. Deal with life, love, traumatic experiences, and sometimes, a little bit of all three. Closure helps people to move on or at least realize why they are eating a gallon of rocky road ice cream. They can justify their behavior when they are buying six pairs of shoes. They know exactly why they can’t sleep or having weird dreams that seem to symbolize their waking lives. Being up at 4am when the cat is still sleeping suddenly becomes clear and we can just feel sorry for ourselves and then the next week, we can sleep.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Shoe shopping can be used in all sorts of circumstances. Personally, when something wonderful happens to me, I like to celebrate with a pair of fabulous shoes (on sale). They say, “Woot! You are fabulous and deserve these Steve Madden sparkly purple pumps!” On the other hand, when I am totally depressed, man-related or otherwise, I like to drown my sorrows in a pair of fabulous shoes (on sale) that say, “Oh honey, don’t worry, you are fabulous and deserve these Steve Madden patent leather Mary Janes that make your legs look breathtaking.” Either way, shoes seems to make me feel happy. Oh shut up. I know several men who feel the same way about shoes. Yes, not just heels on the women they are looking at but for themselves as well. (nothin wrong with a good foot fetish) I only know a few who wear heels, but I do have a straight male friend who has more boots then I do. Of course, he does live in Seattle where shoes get ruined very often because of the rain so it’s good to have a strong collection of boots as a back up to Seattle mud. Oh look, I justified his boot collection for him. Man that is nice of me.
So basically the shoe industry wouldn’t feel a thing in the sales department if people actually gave some closure to their breakups. Trust me, I will keep it going all by myself.
Seriously, all one has to do (and seriously, I am saying male or female here) is say something, anything that makes us realize it is over. There is nothing more pathetic than waiting by the phone, refreshing your email over and over again, and waiting for something to happen. Just be a grown up and end it in a polite and civilized manner that allows us to move on. There was once where this guy I had been dating for months stopped calling and disappeared. I ran into him three months later and found out he had been bitten by a Recluse Spider and had been in the hospital for six weeks. He had been in a coma for three weeks of it and had lost twenty pounds. THAT is the only excuse for disappearance I will accept.
Now, sometimes with technology we tend to get lazy with breakups. I had a student last year who was in a long distance relationship whose girlfriend broke up with him on a text. Personally, if I could have I would have flown to her house and smacked her for that. It was horrible. It was so impersonal and icky. I hated how devastated he was by it. If someone ever broke up with me on a text, I may actually drive over to his house and smack them and I am a pacifist. I abhor violence, but a text-breakup? Seriously? Grow up. I think the amount of sincerity in a breakup should be proportionate to the amount of sincerity there was in the relationship. It’s like relationship math. Yes, I suck at math (and spelling) and yet I can figure this math problem out.
Look, all I’m sayin is when you change manicurists because they have stabbed you one too many times in the cuticle, you really don’t need to say goodbye. You can just find another manicurist. If you are forced to change medical insurance by your employer, you don’t need a face to face with your gynecologist to move on. Well, face to vagina, but whatever.
However, when you have been intimate, emotionally or physically, with someone for more than a month or two, you expect a goodbye with at least a bull shit explanation of why. Even if you don’t like us anymore, we annoy you or we have become too needy or too fraught with expectations about the relationship we thought we had; we are not asking for the Holy Grail of excuses, just a nice “I’m in a different place than you are” excuse works for most of us.
A month goes by and you sit with your friend telling her she should now delete his number off of her phone. She sighs and hits delete. The phone asks her if she really wants to delete his number. She looks into your eyes hoping you will say no, but you just offer her another glass of wine as she hits “yes”. She breathes that shaky breath and sighs again. You sigh as well, remembering the last time that happened to you...
I hoped you liked this blog. If you don’t, it’s not you…it’s me.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
The C-Word
No, not THAT word. I am not a big fan of the “C U Next Tuesday" word. Probably because it has been used directly at me a few times. There are some great insults that have been hurled at me. Some great one-word-zingers that get their point across; but that word, nah, don’t like it.
And I don’t mean “Commitment”, either. I have said it before and I’ll say it again: I have nothing against love, per say, it’s just the idea of a monogamous relationship (right now)and giving up my bed space permanently I am against. Plus, the idea that someone would see me first thing in the morning, with morning gas and eye liner half way down my puffy-sleep-deprived-eyes…yuck. The concept of my partner being exposed to my premenstrual self whom I usually hide away in the magic attic until I no longer scare my children. Yep, not right now, but thanks. I’m sure there will be someone someday who will enjoy these sexy traits of mine, but I am not looking to find out any time soon, so I think we’re good. Of course, I am also not really in the mood for their morning gas, puffy faces or testosterone-poisoned selves on a full time basis either. Small males are enough right now.
No, the C-word I am referring to is the dreaded “Cockroach” (and before you get grossed out, I do NOT have roaches in my apartment. If I did, you wouldn’t be able to walk passed my apartment without hearing screams of terror. Plus, if they were here, I would have moved out by now). The C-thingies (shudder) and I have had a tumultuous and tormented past. Well, they may not mind me, but I mind them. Like, a lot. Like, really a lot. Like, yuck and a half a lot. (shudder)
Back in college, at the University of Wisconsin, Madison (go Badgers) I had moved into a basement apartment (because I wanted to be just like Laverne and Shirley) on, oh what was the name of that street. It was right down the street from The Union. Umm…I’ll get back to you on that. Anyway, the night I moved in, the C-thingies came from everywhere. There I was, in cowboy books, boxer shorts and a ripped t-shirt (ala Madonna) with a can of raid in one hand and a shoe in the other. I felt like Arnold Schwarzenegger before he was governor and still just a bad overpaid actor. Commando Allison! "AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!!!!" (wait, that may have sounded more like a pirate.) Anyway, I killed so many C-thingies I lost count. I finally thought I was done and took off my boots and one crawled over my foot. I ran screaming from my new disgusting apartment at 2am to my friend Rachel’s apartment. She wasn’t thrilled I was waking her up at 2am, but she calmed me down, gave me vodka and let me crash there. The landlords actually moved rather quickly and they cleaned up all of the corpses, bombed my place and I don’t know if it was the freezing winter temperatures or they were actually gone, but they were, actually gone. (shudder)
Landon Street! Oh good, I remembered. I feel better now. Okay, to continue on with my innane bug story...
Flash forward ten years, when I found the cutest one bedroom in Larchmont Village with French doors and built in furniture from the 1920’s. I loved this place. It was so cute and sweet with the original icebox still in the kitchen. Yep, I loved it until they turned the electricity on. Then “they” came from everywhere…again. Return of the C-thingies.
Hundreds. (shudder) I didn’t even try to kill them. I was frozen with fear this time. I could barely move to across the living room to call in back up. It took what seemed to be an hour (like five minutes)to make it all the way to the bedroom and called my BFF Kelly, who drove all the way from Van Nuys and killed them from me. I love her. She understands me. She is also terrified of spiders. I kill hers and she kills mine.
I left my cute and infested pad and moved out that night. The nice thing was I hadn’t unpacked yet so it made moving super easy to move again, one day after I had just moved in. By the way, this is the short version of the story of what became known as “The Pit of Despair”. (shudder)
In the last apartment I lived in with the dreaded X, we had the issue of waterbugs. These are the great white sharks of C-thingies. They look identical to their smaller cousin bugs but live outside and only come in to your house to die. I know all of this information because I had the exterminator on speed dial by then. Richie, the exterminator, who took my calls and inspected my apartment and understood my fears. He was so nice. He was afraid of flying and had only been on an airplane once in his life. He was actually much nicer than my x-husband was to me about my Entomophobia. Although the dreaded X made fun of my jumping onto furniture or running screaming from the room and hiding until it was gone when one of these waterbugs came to visit, he did kill them for me. They would crawl on the walls and ceilings which was the grossest part of these things. (shudder)
When I left him, my first apartment was clean and shiny and bright and apparently had a big hole in the screen of one of the doors because the waterbugs came to roost again. They showed up two weeks after I had moved in. Try to understand this: I had paralyzing Entomophobic fears that made me scream like Jamie Lee Curtis in Halloween and I had just left my Bug-killer and was planning on divorcing him. Although I hated him, the man still killed my bugs. This put me into a whole new area of my fear. Overcoming my fear.
I was in Grad school for my Masters in Education at the time, so I had these huge text books I liked to use to kill these monsters. My favorite book to use was my Bilingual Education book which was larger than my youngest son at the time. I loved this book. Not just because I liked what Cummings and Krashen had to say about education but I would hurl the book and smash’em. Ummm, not the pedagogic researchers, I meant the bugs.
But then the problem was my fear would kick in again and I couldn’t pick up the dead ones. (shudder) I would try but…I…just…eeewwww….couldn’t. My babysitter apparently came from hearty-stock in El Salvador, so would come over in the mornings and pick up the bug corpses for me. She never made fun of me, she never rolled her eyes at me; she just acted as my waterbug coroner for me without a fuss because she understood my fears. She has a fear of heights so I clean the cobwebs off of the ceiling. We make a good team. I love her. She does my laundry too.
Now a days, we have only had to deal with spiders and crickets, which I can handle peacefully and rarely even kill them. I like the catch and release program for bugs I don’t mind.
So, here's the point of my blog today (you were wondering, I know). I did find the strength I needed within myself to kill these monsters all by myself because I had no choice. Sometimes the only way to face your fears and get over them is to be forced to face your fears. Yep, those little buggers made me woman-up and kick some ass. Like most things in life we are afraid of, we usually remain afraid of them until we have no other alternative but to face them. Whether it is big nasty bugs, leaving your spouse and being on your own, graduating from high school and moving into adulthood or just learning to drive on the freeway in Los Angeles; you do what you have to do when you have to do it.
Of course I am still afraid of the C-thingies. I can kill them if I am forced to, but I still really, really, really don't like them. One crawled into my classroom the other day. (Ah, working in an inner-city school. Good times.) I screamed, jumped on a desk and offered five points extra credit for one of my students to kill it. It was a beautiful moment in education.
(shudder)
And I don’t mean “Commitment”, either. I have said it before and I’ll say it again: I have nothing against love, per say, it’s just the idea of a monogamous relationship (right now)and giving up my bed space permanently I am against. Plus, the idea that someone would see me first thing in the morning, with morning gas and eye liner half way down my puffy-sleep-deprived-eyes…yuck. The concept of my partner being exposed to my premenstrual self whom I usually hide away in the magic attic until I no longer scare my children. Yep, not right now, but thanks. I’m sure there will be someone someday who will enjoy these sexy traits of mine, but I am not looking to find out any time soon, so I think we’re good. Of course, I am also not really in the mood for their morning gas, puffy faces or testosterone-poisoned selves on a full time basis either. Small males are enough right now.
No, the C-word I am referring to is the dreaded “Cockroach” (and before you get grossed out, I do NOT have roaches in my apartment. If I did, you wouldn’t be able to walk passed my apartment without hearing screams of terror. Plus, if they were here, I would have moved out by now). The C-thingies (shudder) and I have had a tumultuous and tormented past. Well, they may not mind me, but I mind them. Like, a lot. Like, really a lot. Like, yuck and a half a lot. (shudder)
Back in college, at the University of Wisconsin, Madison (go Badgers) I had moved into a basement apartment (because I wanted to be just like Laverne and Shirley) on, oh what was the name of that street. It was right down the street from The Union. Umm…I’ll get back to you on that. Anyway, the night I moved in, the C-thingies came from everywhere. There I was, in cowboy books, boxer shorts and a ripped t-shirt (ala Madonna) with a can of raid in one hand and a shoe in the other. I felt like Arnold Schwarzenegger before he was governor and still just a bad overpaid actor. Commando Allison! "AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!!!!" (wait, that may have sounded more like a pirate.) Anyway, I killed so many C-thingies I lost count. I finally thought I was done and took off my boots and one crawled over my foot. I ran screaming from my new disgusting apartment at 2am to my friend Rachel’s apartment. She wasn’t thrilled I was waking her up at 2am, but she calmed me down, gave me vodka and let me crash there. The landlords actually moved rather quickly and they cleaned up all of the corpses, bombed my place and I don’t know if it was the freezing winter temperatures or they were actually gone, but they were, actually gone. (shudder)
Landon Street! Oh good, I remembered. I feel better now. Okay, to continue on with my innane bug story...
Flash forward ten years, when I found the cutest one bedroom in Larchmont Village with French doors and built in furniture from the 1920’s. I loved this place. It was so cute and sweet with the original icebox still in the kitchen. Yep, I loved it until they turned the electricity on. Then “they” came from everywhere…again. Return of the C-thingies.
Hundreds. (shudder) I didn’t even try to kill them. I was frozen with fear this time. I could barely move to across the living room to call in back up. It took what seemed to be an hour (like five minutes)to make it all the way to the bedroom and called my BFF Kelly, who drove all the way from Van Nuys and killed them from me. I love her. She understands me. She is also terrified of spiders. I kill hers and she kills mine.
I left my cute and infested pad and moved out that night. The nice thing was I hadn’t unpacked yet so it made moving super easy to move again, one day after I had just moved in. By the way, this is the short version of the story of what became known as “The Pit of Despair”. (shudder)
In the last apartment I lived in with the dreaded X, we had the issue of waterbugs. These are the great white sharks of C-thingies. They look identical to their smaller cousin bugs but live outside and only come in to your house to die. I know all of this information because I had the exterminator on speed dial by then. Richie, the exterminator, who took my calls and inspected my apartment and understood my fears. He was so nice. He was afraid of flying and had only been on an airplane once in his life. He was actually much nicer than my x-husband was to me about my Entomophobia. Although the dreaded X made fun of my jumping onto furniture or running screaming from the room and hiding until it was gone when one of these waterbugs came to visit, he did kill them for me. They would crawl on the walls and ceilings which was the grossest part of these things. (shudder)
When I left him, my first apartment was clean and shiny and bright and apparently had a big hole in the screen of one of the doors because the waterbugs came to roost again. They showed up two weeks after I had moved in. Try to understand this: I had paralyzing Entomophobic fears that made me scream like Jamie Lee Curtis in Halloween and I had just left my Bug-killer and was planning on divorcing him. Although I hated him, the man still killed my bugs. This put me into a whole new area of my fear. Overcoming my fear.
I was in Grad school for my Masters in Education at the time, so I had these huge text books I liked to use to kill these monsters. My favorite book to use was my Bilingual Education book which was larger than my youngest son at the time. I loved this book. Not just because I liked what Cummings and Krashen had to say about education but I would hurl the book and smash’em. Ummm, not the pedagogic researchers, I meant the bugs.
But then the problem was my fear would kick in again and I couldn’t pick up the dead ones. (shudder) I would try but…I…just…eeewwww….couldn’t. My babysitter apparently came from hearty-stock in El Salvador, so would come over in the mornings and pick up the bug corpses for me. She never made fun of me, she never rolled her eyes at me; she just acted as my waterbug coroner for me without a fuss because she understood my fears. She has a fear of heights so I clean the cobwebs off of the ceiling. We make a good team. I love her. She does my laundry too.
Now a days, we have only had to deal with spiders and crickets, which I can handle peacefully and rarely even kill them. I like the catch and release program for bugs I don’t mind.
So, here's the point of my blog today (you were wondering, I know). I did find the strength I needed within myself to kill these monsters all by myself because I had no choice. Sometimes the only way to face your fears and get over them is to be forced to face your fears. Yep, those little buggers made me woman-up and kick some ass. Like most things in life we are afraid of, we usually remain afraid of them until we have no other alternative but to face them. Whether it is big nasty bugs, leaving your spouse and being on your own, graduating from high school and moving into adulthood or just learning to drive on the freeway in Los Angeles; you do what you have to do when you have to do it.
Of course I am still afraid of the C-thingies. I can kill them if I am forced to, but I still really, really, really don't like them. One crawled into my classroom the other day. (Ah, working in an inner-city school. Good times.) I screamed, jumped on a desk and offered five points extra credit for one of my students to kill it. It was a beautiful moment in education.
(shudder)
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