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Showing posts from 2012

Fragments 11/25

Saw a truck today: a gorgeous thing, parked on the too green for November in Maine grass in front of a peeling yellow house. Large, heavy, round hood, curving fenders, the Kate Smith of American trucks circa 1938. A small square table in a popular downtown eatery with my daughter this morning. I hate the word eatery. I thought you should know. She appologetically helped herself to my bagel. I drank her Orangina when she got up to get more napkins. My girl, black leggings, old blue sweatshirt pulled out of shape. Blue wool hat she wears everywhere. Her uncombed hair peaking out from underneath, hat pulled down over her forehead, hat resting on the tops of her glasses, her bemused grin, big teeth and braces... My girl is teeth, long skinny legs, and a blue wool hat. Gearing up for the winter, gearing up for Christmas, gearing up for what lies ahead, big mystery, big worry. What's next. Over the day, a transparency, a filament of shadow. The girl and I walked and ta

Assy ass.

There are days when I just can not stand to be near myself. I feel like a lazy ass, a dumb ass, a fat ass. An assy ass. Today is one of those days. Yesterday was one of those days. And the day before. And also the day before that one.

This ain't no Doll's House and I ain't no doll.

I think it was last year that I decided to blog every day for a month. I think my cool friends Lanna and Edmund inspired me to do this thing. And I think it made me sort of happy. As happy as I get.   Maybe I'll try to do this thing again. I have less time to myself than ever before. Even when the door to my room is shut, I'm not alone. The voices of upset kids, the hysterical barking of the dog, the ringing phone, all constant reminders that I am needed and my time away alone is time that should be spent attending to everything else.  I've had a shitty year, looking November last to November now.  I'm worn down, quite miserable. I don't much like my own company right now, and yet I long so desperately to be alone. I recall reading Ibsen's A Doll's House way back in high school or college. I was stunned that a mother would leave her children like that. Only a horrible selfish person would walk away from her own children.  There are days like

Happy Internet Surfer Girl

Ah the 21st Century. Tonight, thanks to the magic of the internet fairies and the hard work of the hamsters that power my computer, I have been edified and entertained. Well done Internet Fairies, and a heart felt bravo to the hamsters. Remind me to put some oil on that wheel.   My early morning insomnia inspired me to hit the net, and I started off with a cursory howdedoo on face book. Then for no particular reason I checked out Boing Boing, just because, and there I read a cool review of a graphic novel for kids which I SO Want to have. http://www.nobrow.net/9580 On Boing Boing I saw a video parody of "Gangnam Style" by Ai Weiwei. I have a secret crush on him. I watched it. I was confused because I had never watched the original "Gangnam Style" ... so I checked it out. My new favorite song!  I <3 you PSY! Sorry Ai. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9bZkp7q19f0 I then fell in love and cried while I watched Lana Wachowski's brilliant speech. http:

Angst, a mother son bonding experience, the family who despairs together...

So, what would you say to a 9 year old who is in the midst of an existential crisis that would make Camus weep? I think this perceptive boy has seen under my veil, knows that I feel my life has no meaning, so encouragement from me rings hollow. My son says, "Nothing matters. Life is meaningless." Yes, sure, life has meaning, son. Cough. Cough. Wouldn't you rather know how babies are made? I want to be happy. I want to be the kind of mother who is always full of light and sunshine, patience and gentleness, Valium and bourbon. I'm just not that kind of person. I don't have it in me. I can't even fake it. I'm a cynic, a gentle soul with a short fuse. I'm a hugger and a yeller. I run on coffee and adrenaline. I don't think life has meaning. I don't believe in much. I don't believe in Karma. If I did I would think I'd done something REALLY REALLY bad in a previous life. I don't believe in God but I'm not above

Define Sleep.

At some point in this crazy fun house ride called parenthood, I figured I'd get a break, I figured that when the kids reached a certain age I would be able to get a normal nights sleep. But no. I've been averaging between 4 and 5 hours of sleep a night which provides me with enough manic adrenaline induced energy to make it through the first 6 hours of the day. With well timed caffeine injections boosting me along I'm good for about 6 more hours. However, after that, it's all over. I can't sleep but I'm not really functioning as a conscious person. I drool on the couch, grunt to my kids, raise my eyebrows at my husband and pray for sleep or death, which ever comes first. By 9 p.m. I'm a quivering bowl of something that quivers in a bowl...like maybe, tomato aspic with beef tongue. I digress.   By 9 p.m. most good little girls and boys are in bed fast asleep, but because my kids are neither good nor little -- they are both so much bet

Trying to get back in the swing of things

But I'm mad and tired. I'm brimming with mad and tired. So. My brain has jammed. I can't write about what's really going on. And I can't think of anything else. I've been reduced to fishing for writing prompts. Which brings out the surly school girl...truant, pissed off. Only now I'm a surly middle aged woman with a neck wattle. Don't fucking tell neck wattle woman what to do even though neck wattle woman is begging someone to tell her what to do. Mercurial. Full of contradictions. Also an asshole. So, if I had gotten this particular writing prompt as a pissed of girl in high school this is what I would have written. Writing prompt. "My dog is really special because" I don't want to tell you about my dog, what do you think this is, fucking kindergarten? What a waste of time. My dog is really special because he eats his own shit and he tries to hump the cat. My dog is really special because he's a

Sher-shit-out-of-Luck

The kids have been sick with a cold for a few days now and should be feeling somewhat better today, once they trip trap down the stairs I'll see if I'm right about that. In the meantime, I am coming down with this delightful virus. I understand how viruses work, but there is that part of my underdeveloped villager brain that thinks this cold is God's divine plan and he want to make me suffer twice. Once while catering to sick children, picking up countless dirty tissues off the floor, the table, and the arm of the couch, and watching the same 3 episodes of Myth Busters over and over and over again.    The second round of punishment, when my kids are well and need me to continue to wash their clothes, clean the house, cook meals and play referee and coach,with my head full of snot and lungs full of phlegm and body aches and a fever.    What I'd really like to do is sit  on the couch, blow my nose, leave my dirty tissues everywhere and watch episodes of the BBC

Stirred not Shaken

"We become sad in the first place because we have nothing stirring to do."  Herman Melville   "Find things that stir you. Open yourself. Get stirred. "   Margaret Miller-Finch Take that anyway you want. Sounds like it could be sort of fun.      When the children were new and small and wondrous, before their brilliance burned me blind, I was happy. Well, perhaps I'm waxing nostalgic. That's the only sort of waxing I do, neither legs nor floors, only nostalgia. Thinking back on the blur of early motherhood,  an image of myself  flickers before my eyes. Linda Blaire and Mother Theresa in one body, looming there in the shadows. Lurking, menacing, yet humble and loving.    One moment lovingly bathing the child with lavender scented bubbles and warm water, patiently dressing and diapering the child, gently rocking him to sleep, tucking the sleeping babe in his cozy crib.   The next, smashing and stomping and kicking apart the wooden roc

Musings on love, intelligence and other big things...

I'm smart enough to realize I am not brilliant but not dumb enough to be happy. It's sort of like being tall enough to see up in the cupboard but too short to reach the can of beans on the top shelf. I can get a step stool, or even clamber onto the counter like a middle aged monkey, stand to my staggering 5' 5" with my dirty feet planted firmly on the counter top and grab the beans, but I'm not motivated enough to do that. Not for beans. Chocolate yes. My son has somehow come to the conclusion that he is stupid. He says it dozens of times every day. "I'm stupid." My son has been asking questions about intelligence. He's heard about the IQ test. He wants to put himself in a place. He wants a score, a grade.  He wants to prove he's either as smart as he thinks he is or as dumb as he feels. My son took an IQ test in 1st grade as part of the assessment to determine the nature of his learning difficulties. What we found w

Writing Stuff: just thinking

I've been working on some stuff, writing stuff. Not necessarily blog stuff, just stuff stuff. The danger is that if I don't just write in a flurry and put it out there I don't finish anything. I write something. I put it away. I come back to it. I re-read. I fix things that really need fixing. Stupid grammatical errors, stupid spelling mistakes.  I move things around that need to be moved. I tweak and shuffle and rethink and rework and I cut things. I cut things I like and that stings a little but not as much as it used to. This process continues and more and more things fall away. Is this bit necessary? Too wordy? repetitive? Yes? cut cut cut cut cut Eventually I've got one word on the page, fuck. Fuck. No surprise there but it is one of my favorite words.  It's effective, it's sharp, it's simple. But perhaps it's still too much. Perhaps the fffff is unnecessary, or the uh, or the ck. It's been said,

Do not go gentle into that fucking fucked up shitty night, rage and piss and moan, kick people, damn it.

I haven't written anything in a week.  I've been cranky. I've been a cranky bitch and when I'm not being a cranky bitch, I'm sucking down huge quantities of carbs. I'm sucking carbs like a ... like a fucking carb sucking machine. I'm telling you now, do not piss off the pissed off perimenopausal woman with PMS.  Do not.  I've had to deal with a larger number of ass holes than usual recently.  They have only themselves to blame, being all ass holey near me when I'm in all my carb sucking cranky bitch glory. If only they knew how much restraint I was showing.  So my eyes glowed red and the tendons in my neck were taut, I raised my voice and may or may not have punched a wall or thrown a thing.... I didn't actually bite anyone, hard.  Anyway,  I'm feeling some better but, Jesus, this middle age thing is shit.  Arthritis is acting up in my knee, in my foot, in my hands. I'm all stiff and ac

Just don't call me Late to Dinner

A friend recently asked if I was ever called Maggie or if I'd always been a Margaret. That got me thinking about my name. I hate my name.  Hate it. I have never liked my name. It seems fine to call other people Margaret. It sounds agreeable enough when I say hello to another Margaret. "Hello, Margaret!" I might say. And the name doesn't offend me. It doesn't make me recoil or wretch. It's just a name. And a fine name at that. But it's not for me. I don't feel like a Margaret. It doesn't fit me well.  Hangs off me all funny and weird. Can't ever seem to wear it comfortably. I don't like to be called by name. Frankly, it makes me feel sort of sick.  When I was a chubby 3rd grader I decided I wanted to go by a nickname.   Peggy. I wrote it in my clumsy curly cursive on the front inside cover of my books.   I said it out loud to myself in the mirror. Peggy. Peggy! I liked it. First of all Peg

Bad case of the stupids going around

Someone please make the stupid stop. I can't even believe the crap that's been in the news lately. This Todd Akin dude and his comments about "legitimate rape" not leading to pregnancy because women physiologically have ways to "deal with that"--- On a good day I have to work hard at being coherent, but when I 'm pissed, like now, and I've been simmering at high heat in pissy with the lid on tight the top blows and I want to lash out and start calling names and throwing punches. Todd Akin is a miserable ass. He's a douche-bag. No, wait, he's not good enough to be a douche bag. I actually can't think of a word that adequately conveys the depth of my disgust for the enormity of his stupidity. This is what we get when we let science go by the wayside, basic science at that. Was Todd excused from health class the day they explained all about the lady parts and the feller parts and the ins and outs of reproduction? Rape i

Some thoughts about motherhood, housework and attempting to live a creative life

There is this popular self published writer who has a writing blog. He has written a couple of e-books about being a writer and recently finished a book of fiction which is available on Amazon. I know because he has mentioned it several times in his blog. In case I somehow missed it the first 15 times he brought it up. He's marketed himself and inspired a lot of people and he's inspired me, I'll admit it. I have to say though the fact that he is a well read blogger and self published author shouldn't make him a guru. He does seem to fashion himself as an expert and that grates on me. But hey, he's doing something right. Basically his good advice is as follows: Find the thing you want to do, say, to be a writer. Label yourself. I'm a writer! Keep writing. Write everyday, put yourself out there were people can see your work, be consistent be prolific be self disciplined. So far so good. Today however, in my inbox there is a  little "this

Muddled Thoughts at 3:46 Monday Morning.

I don't want to think about anything real. I don't want to talk to anyone. I don't want to hear anything, I don't want to read anything, I sure as hell don't want to write anything. I don't want to be a wife or a parent or a daughter. I long for my youth and my single chin and my neck. I really miss  having a neck... you walk around thinking, Hey, I'm ok and then you see pictures of yourself and think, well FUHHHHCK. How the hell did I pick up all these extra chins and where's my neck? My friend Ruth passed away. She recently turned 88. She misplaced a couple of years and maintained she was 86 but no.  I could kick myself for not ever getting around to making poor dear Ruth the popcorn I promised to bring her weeks ago. Isn't that they way  though. Regret. You forgot the lessons you learned before. I forgot I do not have all the time in the world. My time is up. I lied to the kids who also felt guilty for not b

Random thoughts about vacation and stuff...

I don't think I've been on a real vacation since I was a kid. And even that was rare.  My husband and I spent a long weekend away for our honeymoon. A friend got us a night in a bed and breakfast and then we spent 2 days in Portland, Maine. Went to a record shop, ate at a Greek restaurant and went to a book store. Since we've been married we've taken a  few trips to Salt Lake City, Utah to visit my mother in law. That my dears was not a vacation. Unless a week in hell with Satan herself is a vacation. We'd be miserable the moment we got there and about ready to have ourselves volentarily committed when we returned. I am not even exagerating. We have spent a nice few days camping with the kids. That's a vacation. Except we're so friggin poor that we'd worry about having enough gas money to get home, we'd wonder how we were going to pay the entrance fee into the National Park. We'd worry if we'd have enough food for the kids and

A little cat poem today because cats make the world more beautiful...

unless they happen to be horking up a hairball.  Nobody can be gorgeous all the time. A little cat poem about a little cat The cat sleeps in my chair at the table I tip the chair slowly imagining  she will slip gently down land easily on her feet and find another spot to lick her paws and loll and purr and sleep her claws cling to the wicker seat with the tenacity of a burdock in a wool sock fibers of the wicker chair snag and snap enough for her to lose her grip the cat stands for a moment indignant she slinks off there are more comfortable places to sleep couch or bed I sit with my toast and my book realize I have left my coffee in the kitchen 30 seconds or less to walk to the kitchen and walk back I return to find the cat curled and sleeping in my chair

I'm with Camus on this one: At the very least, He's left the building

I never went to church as a kid. I sort of wanted to go to church at one point, but being the type of person who chafes and bucks at rules, being the sort of person who gets cranky when told what to do, I got over the desire to pursue a religion pretty quickly. Not long after I graduated from high school, I ran into an old school friend who was a very pious born again Christian. She had recently started college at a small Christian school and she glowed with a happiness that was and still is completely foreign to me. Her faith warmed her, it fed her.   She told me this little story about how good God was to her. Seems her school was just sqeeking by, there wasn't much money for niceties like food, heat, and toilet paper. The girls dorm was out of toilet paper, when behold! Somehow, God provided! A case of squeezably soft Charmine appeared, was delivered right to their door. Wow! Isn't God good?! Exclaimed my beatific friend. This story seemed somewhat anti-clim
I'm so nearsighted that when I take off my glasses I can't see anything. I can't make out the facial features of those around me, can't see pictures on the wall. The whole world is out of focus and frankly, it I feel adrift and a bit lost.  I can see my hands if I hold them very close to my face, though. When my glasses are off, I stare at my hands. It's strangely comforting. The other evening I had taken off my glasses while sitting at the table talking with my daughter. My daughter brought this weird hand staring thing to my attention, like a 13 year old daughter would. Anyway,  ____________________________________________________________________________ thick knuckled callused from scrubbing and sweeping and lifting and digging have bathed babies, wiped bottoms, wiped noses, smoothed the damp hair of a fevered son and daughter, have reached down into dark places dirty toilets clogged drains are scarred
I learned a lesson years ago. It wasn't a good lesson and it hasn't served me well in the long run, but in the short term it was useful and made my life easier. The lesson, might as well spit it out already, was this: Do not try very hard. Eventually people will expect less of you. You can slide by while exerting minimal effort, you hardly need break a sweat. If things don't turn out very well you have the convenient excuse, "Well, it wasn't my best effort" or "I wasn't really trying." Anything less than a perfect result when I was really trying  left me thinking, that's the BEST I can  do? I imagined others around me were shaking their heads and chuckling in disbelief, Wow, if that's the best she's got, whoa! God help her! Put on a nice dress, comb my hair, do the make-up and look in the mirror.  That's the BEST I can do? Woof! Write a story, put my heart and soul into it and wind up with a  piece of drivel? 

Life is sort of a game of solitaire sometimes maybe

I've hit a bit of a dry spot. I know that if I want to write, I can't just sit around playing solitaire on my Kindle and then lie to myself that I'm not writing because I'm too busy. I think I'm not writing this week because everything feels too big and scary and I don't want to think about the big and the scary. I want to put the Queen of Hearts on the King of Clubs and the two of spades on the ace of diamonds and call it a day. Recently I went into a little book store here in my little town and while looking for a travel guide they didn't have, I found a nice book about writing, The Writer's Idea Book , by Jack Heffron. He's a good writer. It's good to read about writing because I can fool myself into thinking I'm working on my writing. But really I'm lying on my bed with the fan on, casually flipping pages and letting every helpful bit of writerly advice evaporate away as soon as I get to the end of each paragraph. So t
I have a little over four years. Then my daughter will be 18 and she'll be moving on to another part of her life. I'm visualizing some sort of planetary shift; a realization that I am not the center of her universe and she will no longer be the center of mine. This makes me sad beyond words. And yet I know it's right.  It's profound how we come to be, the potential that manifests as cells divide and differentiate. Every beautiful thing about this child was contained within the fragile walls of minute cells. The mysteries of the universe holding breath and then the miracle of her.  She is perhaps no more miraculous than any other child, but she is mine, and to me, she is every holy thing.  The time we have together like this, in this place, is nearing an end. She has already eclipsed me. That is as it should be and I am glad. She has just now in the past week grown past my height, and when she puts her arm around me, it's over my shoulder, not acr
And today , a poem. Because it's spring and grey and the birds are singing.  This is a first draft sort of thing... Before Language print mud memory before language the gingko leaf the footprint the bone now rock transformed the same only harder decay imbedded in earth child hands dig the muddy bank remember digging and small white shells