How To Plan Your Big Escape...

First rule:

Tell no one.




Dammit!

Fail.

Will work on this and get back with you.

grin in the face of futility

I woke up yesterday morning with "tears in my ears". This is family speak for crying in bed. Had a bad dream. I am hurtling towards 40 so fast that my ears ache from the wind blow and I had a bad dream. Eloquent, I know.
I was dreaming of being a child again trying to talk reason to my mother. Noticing a pattern here? Yeah, me too. There is a Buddhist saying about life that fits here, and in the loosest of translations it says: "If you wanna to know about your past, look at your today. If you wanna to know about your future, look at your today." ugh. Looking back on my relationship with my mother is like trying to weed through reels of "Mommy Dearest" clips. Looking at my potential future with her reminds me that in my career I have solidly learned that Crazy Critical Entitled Old Ladies NEVER die.
In the grateful department, I did have one pair of fantastically strong and warm arms wrap around and hold me. He is such a good man. And, he whispered consoling words in my ear like, "don't worry love, I'm sure she'll drop dead any day now." Ok. Not really. But I'm sure he was thinking it for me. He's sweet that way.
I would love to tell you that after my mother broke the umpteenth kitchen spoon (or other nearby house hold kitchen utensil) over my head (or whatever other body part she could get to), or later when she bit me so hard that it left a pale imprint scar that even my best friend's mom could notice, I would have realized that she was no where to go for comfort, much less understanding. But seriously people, Sisyphus has got nothing on me. I have been rolling that hope right on up a hill for, well... lets just say slightly less than 40 years. That little girl in my dreams has just defiantly kept on with the hoping thing. But I think now the jig is up. She knows it. Knows it deep. Knows it in her bones. So this morning as my husband wrapped me up and went off to make coffee (yes, he is just that amazing) the little girl me, said "screw the rock, screw that hill, I'm going to have a beer."
So now that I am hurtling towards 40, the bones that hold this unhappy knowledge are, embarrassingly padded nicely. Eh-hem. No smirking. Let's just say I very nearly have the fat thing down, Mr. Buddha. I promise I'll start working on the inane grin.

I am babysitting

my nephews, Captain O and his slightly less kinetic older brother Mr. "how 'bout no?". So far so good, as things have been fairly calm and well adjusted. I actually can be trusted with small children. (Just not teens with potentially terminal cases of shit'headedness.) All has been well. Going well since I figured out that Cpt. O has the same operating instructions as "Gizmo" from Gremlins, that is. Don't feed him after midnight and whatever you do, DO NOT get him wet. Holy Crap, I seriously had to put that kid in a baby full-nelson during bath time just to keep him from killing himself or his older, bigger brother. As soon as his little Tasmanian feet hit the water he got this eerie wide grin- then his eyes rolled back in his head, he flung his arms in the air "Home Alone" style and body checked Mr. "how 'bout no?". Haven't ever heard him cry out "bright light, bright light!!!", but he is a pale shade of tow-head, so I'm guessing it's a given. But BEWARE if he starts asking for "eggs! da! Da!", (illusory angelic head bobbing an affirmative up and down), "Eggs!" late at night. Nothing good will come of it.
Unfortunately, Auntie Kay-Kay is selfishly dreaming (when I do sleep) about how she could hop that boy up on Mountain Dew and cocoa-crispies during the witching hour and unleash him on his less well behaved teen girl cousin, the aforementioned "Princess Queen of the Universe". THAT GIRL, whose ancient Indian name appears to be "comes and goes as she damn well pleases", has made me NUTS cruising in at 0230AM, waking all sweet slumbering boys, or just not coming home at all. Which if you hadn't noticed is NOT particularly restful for momma, and makes momma generally more cranky than usual. At least with her. But, as she has so aptly pointed out, what am I going to do about it??? It's a good question. She should be careful. I might get creative. All I can say is it is a good thing I am absolutely infatuated with Mr. "how 'bout no?" and his goober nosed brother, or I'd just wind 'em up and turn 'em loose on her.
Yeeha!

stay with me on this one...

And I will try and keep it on track. I promise to try to keep the thoughts concise, because GOD knows I just love words.
Background to the Oprah "A-ha" moment: Baby Girl #1 cruised in at just after 5AM this morning. We had what amounts to disagreeable words. By this I mean no yelling or smashing of household objects. But from this, I have found some understanding of what (my opinion) is the BIG ISSUE, in this whole messy dynamic. So, here it goes.
There is a line you just don't cross when it comes to other people and their children. Meaning - regardless of your personal prejudice regarding a parent in question, you just don't assume you know better when it comes to their kids. Regardless of who that parent happens to be to you. (list of possibilities: your co-worker, your sister/brother, your neighbor, your own adult child, your niece.) It's just that basic. Or at least I thought it was.
You may not like someone. You may not like me. But you cross a principal line when you go so far as to presume to know better about how my child should be raised.
Much less act on it.
Granted, most would agree there are categories of "Clearly Wrong" that require swift and focused intervention. These include but are not limited to, the parent is:
1) a drunk, 2) a drug addict, 3) physically abusive, 4) mentally/emotionally abusive *please take caution with #4. If used in a cavalier manner this can become an ugly mess if you're not willing to point the critical finger right back at yourself.
Why is this so complicated for some?
I don't know. I have no illusions about being a flawless human. Have no gripe with being found want in the many flavors of my temperament. I am a taste of personality not loved or even palatable to all. And to loosely plagiarise a line off a new up coming movie "My life is a working experiment in bad decisions." And, I accept total blame for assuming that when it comes to the idea that there is line you just don't cross, that all grown-ups know this, feel this, live this.

I was wrong.

Wouldn't be the first time.

house party

"homes are for free expression, NOT for good impression".
(shamelessly scalped this right off another blog I follow.)

I am either freely expressing A) my home life is a work in progress, or B) my home life is a disaster area in a declared state of emergency.
Thinking I'm gonna get this framed above my front door. Thinking my sister should bear this as fair warning for this weekend. I have somehow decided that in the middle of living out the circus of teenage angst, considering whether to commit my mother or just issue a restraining order, resigning from my career (literally, not just emotionally and mentally) that this would be a cool time to have people over to my house for a social soiree with fun baubles for amusement. This would be the part of my personality that ranges from mild self abuse to full blown masochism rearing it's ugly head. It is apparently not enough that my home life has bled itself all ick-y like in to my professional life. You... know... the embarrassing hemorrhage that causes the kind of show stopping response to a polite but non committal "Is everything ok?" The kind that leaves everyone uncomfortable and listening to the intricacies of those weird air conditioning compressor noises and staring at their shoes. But now, I'm actually going to invite these people in to the home that is painfully half broken from owner inflicted D.I.Y. improvement. I honestly have NO FLOORING throughout the downstairs living area. To explain: In a fit of, Dear Jesus, if I have to look at one more odd unidentifiable colored stain on this carpet panic, I ripped them all up. At least all the downstairs. The upstairs remains in it's disgusting, but intact state. And have chosen due to time, money, crisis - take your pick- not to replace it with anything as of yet. Wondering how capable I am in pulling off a party a la Emily Post in a home that coordinates well with the garage slab, 'cept less so since the garage was at least graded and not swirled with carpet glue tracks and chunks of scraper resistant multicolored padding? Thank God, I don't actually associate with anyone who even knows where the nearest Lily Pulitzer is, much less how properly address and stuff a graduation announcement. (this was a fun and humility building task that took at least 7 adult educated and professional women, whose job basically consists of making sure people don't drop dead, at least 2 and half hours time and several google searches.) The upside is that now the 2 golden retriever and one ghetto dog hair tumbleweeds can blow across the plains of my living room unfettered. The other upside is if everyone takes off their shoes we can all scuff up some pretty impressive jiffy feet and then pretend we're single. and still skinny. and tan, and hot, *you fill in the rest.

Birth Day Bash-ing... whatever.

Think I may have officially reached some type of birthday milestone. Yes. Today is that day. Great. My most underwhelming response to the morning was, "whatever. where the hell is the advil?"
On a side note... If I had to make it through a whole 'nother year only consuming 2 things- I think, if necessary, I could make it on Coffee and Advil. This may be all the sustenance I need.
Back to the milestone. Thing is, I just don't care. I really, really have hit the place where if when asked "whadda ya want? whadda ya want?!", my hand to GOD response is "a clean house, everyone stop abusing each other, and money in the bank." I am just that exhausted. Here's a point of reference for how heavy the exhaustion can be. (and no offense to Roz, b'cause seriously girl, you rock! or row. whatever.) I follow a blog of a woman rowing across the ocean by her lonesome. (Thank you, sis) I find this somewhat calming and therapeutic. Have fancied her a kindred spirit of sorts. Like somehow we are sharing parallel allegories of life. Row, row, weather passing squall, row, bake in the incessant sun, row, find the peace that passes just before delirium, row, sleep, get up, row, weather passing squall... you get my point. I hope I don't offend by the comparison, because what she is doing and has already done is truly phenomenal. I find it spookily close to home is all. just sayin.

Attempting to reset

In an attempt to reset back to a state of therapeutic acrimony I have a few thoughtful quips for today. Hopefully, you have started to discern that my bitter wit is a cope mechanism . And this particular portal of vent, prevents me from actually speaking my inner dialogue. No, that's not accurate either. This blog serves to help me decompress or otherwise not burst in to flame when I begin to suffer from "stuffing it" for over long periods of time. Not that anyone who has been in my recent company would accuse me of "stuffing it". To my defense- as of late the gut wrenching pain of what the world has had in store for me, and who the world has chosen to ram it down my throat, has been more than any natural born human (read- NOT Jesus Christ) could possibly bear out with much of their sanity intact, much less with any grace.

Thoughts going forward:

There are two theories to arguing with me. Neither one works.

Mess with me again, and I am likely to switch your lasix for tic-tacs when you're not looking.

Do not walk behind me, I may not lead. Do not walk ahead of me, I may not follow. Do not walk beside me either. Pretty much, just leave me the hell alone.
Unless you're Marko. Then stay. And quite possibly, get naked.