Stationary Unicycle

You'd like to know about my background as a writer? Well, let's start with my deep love for language and stories. I am also literate. I also know the difference between 'you're' and  'your' and also 'there', 'their', and 'they're'. Look, I'll be straight with you. I could make shit up, but that would be wrong. What I do have to offer is my perspective: I am Every Woman and can appeal to the universal experiences of Women. HA! No. Okay, so I'm not really an Every Woman. I am however a Fairly Common Woman. I am funny, smart, and quirky. I have conceived, carried, and expelled two human beginnings from my very own body, and this makes me an expert on all things pertaining to snot, shit, and stretchmarks. The two humans who once inhabited my uterus are 15 and 10. I live with them and keep them alive. This makes me an expert on all things pertaining to patience, maternal love and devotion, self doubt, worry,...

I am obsessively writing and rewriting an email to my son's teacher. I think my son's teacher is super awesome and I adore him and am grateful to him for all the kindness and compassion he's shown to us. But I do have a problem and the problem is this: each student in his class is to choose a book to read with their parent over winter vacation. The book my son chose,  The Tiger Rising  by Kate DiCamillo, is sad. Spoiler alert : the tiger dies...OF COURSE THE TIGER DIES. This is meritorious serious quality children's literature we're talking about; something  beloved and beautiful MUST DIE. We must grind our children's souls to dust and then blow the powdery soul particles into the wind and away, before they reach middle school. My son still hasn't completely recovered from Where the Red Fern Grows . His class read Where the Red Fern Grows in October and if you so much as allude to anything red and fern-like or say the word 'dog'  or 'dogs...

The anniversary of Sandy Hook approaches while the news of the school shooting today in Colorado unfolds. Last night my son asked me why there were bad people in the world. My son isn't aware of the depth of the issue, but he knows there are bad people in the world who do bad things, and his question is why. I haven't got an answer for him. I have not one fucking idea. I didn't tell him that. I told him I didn't know why some people did bad things, but most people are good, and that he is safe. Later, I asked my husband what he thought. He suggested that people do bad things because they think they are doing right things. I see his point, to a point, but that wouldn't account for most of the bad stuff that happens. Let's think about the types of bad guys I've been hearing about in the news lately: You've got your Kim Jong-un's and your Taliban gunmen who shoot little girls on their way to school. You've got school shooters...

It's the holiday season and I'm not depressed and anxious. At least I don't think I'm depressed and anxious. We have our Christmas tree up, which is nice. We started our shopping earlier than usual. That was good. We've decided that gifts for the kids will be thoughtful but not extravagant. Books, lots of books, and cool t-shirts and cool socks. We are officially not getting a new game system. We can't afford it and we don't need it. I have noticed over the course of the past few years that the Christmases when we buy less stuff, the kids seem happier. It was easier to buy less when the kids got hip to the truth about Santa. They were both pretty young when they started asking the hard questions. It was such a relief not to have to lie to them anymore. When they believed in Santa they were under the impression that the number of gifts they got was a reflection of how good they were. My husband and I would break the bank trying to reassure ...

I've got a little less than an hour to write today's blog post. I'm sitting at Bagel Central at my favorite table -- by the window second table on the left as you enter, with my favorite bagel -- sesame water bagel with butter, and my favorite coffee -- large. A toddler, a little boy with big eyes and a tiny dollop of a nose weaves around the room on stiff legs. He wears a navy blue coat with the hood up. Long loose light brown curls poke out from under the hood. His young father follows but doesn't hover. The little boy sees the old fashioned cast iron steam radiator. His interest is peaked, he puts on a burst of speed and reaches out. The curious look on the boy's face changes to confusion and from confusion to a pained grimace as he touches the hot radiator. The dad deftly scoops his son up in one arm and says quietly and calmly, "No, don't touch. Hot." They move out of my line of sight. I expect the child to cry. He doesn't. A few mom...

My son is still working on poetry for school. He's trying his hand at many different rhyme schemes. It seems like it would be easy until you try. Tonight's post is for my poetry writing son. Writing poetry in verse is like trying to refold a map after unfolding it Take this small perfect contained rectangle open it shake it it unfurls it rattles it blows in the wind lay it down on the ground flatten it with your sweat damp hands You are here. Where are you going? Once you have your bearings, try to find the one right way to make this unwieldy flapping expanse fit again into the small space it once was small enough to fit perfectly refold along the creases running sharply through rivers mountains, towns and cities unnamed townships interstate highways and railroad tracks ponds and oceans and oceans and lakes folding a map is strange origami writing a poem in verse is folding feelings like a map into a bird

We put up our Christmas tree today. We also installed a cat door. We did a lot of other crazy stuff too, not the least of which was me getting pissed off at a clerk in a drug store. My latent asshole gene was activated and manifesting itself. I was foiled in my attempt to run an emergency last minute errand for my elderly mom. After I was mean to the drug store clerk I apologized profusely. She, after all, had nothing to do with making stupid store policies. See? Even when I am the asshole customer I come to my nice lady senses, own my bad behavior and apologize. However, I digress. One day I'll write a story called The Nice Lady Who Acted Like an Asshole in the Drug Store Because the Cashier Could Not Would Not Go Into the Storeroom for the Correct Size and Brand of Adult Hygiene Product (not for the nice lady, but for the nice lady's elderly mother, remember that!) Even Though The Drug Store Has Them in Stock Because it is  Sunday and the Adult Hygiene and Other Med...

Last night we were finally able to get my son new shoes and a pair of boots. He's needed new shoes for a while, and winter in the North East requires appropriate foot gear, so we've known that new boots would be an inevitable purchase too. Until last night, things never really worked out for us to go shopping. Either we had the time but not the money or the money but not the time. At the end of September my son sprained his foot and it's ill advised  to shop for new shoes when you've got a swollen foot. Our car was dying and we needed to get a newer one. Our daughter's birthday was in October so most of our extra cash went to buy gifts for her. Last month my son had strep so some potential shopping days were nixed due to illness, and there was Thanksgiving which also sort of got in the way of shoe shopping, too for a multitude of reasons. Also my mom was ill, and there was work and just everything. Meanwhile we made do with what we had and my son appropria...

Today is one of those Fridays that is misbehaving like a Monday. My alarm rang for a solid 30 minutes before I even became vaguely aware that it was ringing. My daughter's alarm didn't go off at all. There was unfinished homework and panic. We're out of cereal so even though we were all running late I had to cook breakfast. I spilled a full bottle of prescription medication on the very dirty kitchen floor and then had to rationalize while I plucked them from the filth and plinked them back in their little amber container that the bacteria would be less harmful if ingested every day for a month with medicine. Immediately after the medication spill my son spilled a full glass of orange juice across the table and onto my daughter's computer charger which, thankfully, was not attached to my daughter's computer but was, horribly, still plugged into the outlet. On the upside even thought I did holler "Oh Shit!" when I spilled the meds, I showed off...

Yeah, I'm feeling pretty pissed off today. I've been thinking about the upcoming anniversary of the Newtown shootings. I'm pissed off about the 911 calls being released to the public. I'm scared too, thinking about crazy folks having access to the 911 calls from that day.  I imagine that some fucked up fucker might find inspiration in listening to those calls, that by making those calls public we're sowing the seeds for future horrors.  I feel some relief that December 14th is a Sunday this year.  In other bleak news today: North Korea has been enlarging their prison camps, says Amnesty International.  Low end estimate for prison camp population is 150,000 people.  These are forced labor camps. People are starved, worked to death, raped, beaten, tortured and executed. Inmates of these camps include children.  I thought we'd vowed never let this kind of evil happen again and yet we've let it happen again and again and again. ...

My daughter has to choose a poem, memorize it, and recite it in front of her class on Friday. This evening my daughter has been complaining vociferously, cursing poetry, having to read it is a bore, having to memorize it is a waste, having to recite it is an indignity, having to listen to other people recite it is an injustice of great magnitude. My daughter hasn't shared her chosen poem with me, she's too nervous. But she asked me for some advice anyway, and I stupidly offered her some. I cautioned her against reciting poetry in that horrid monotone that people often adopt when reading poetry. I suggested she kick that approach to the curb and that she adopt a more natural tone. She stared at me with her withering stare of pure disdain. But poetry isn't NATURAL, MOTHER. I mentioned I would have loved having an opportunity to recite poetry when I was in school. My son said he loved to read, memorize, and recite poetry. My daughter glared at me, then turned the gla...

Today is about waiting rooms. I am in a waiting room, waiting. The doctor whose waiting room I'm sitting in has gone to some effort to make me comfortable. I appreciate the effort. The Road to Shambala is playing on the oldies station. I like this song but wouldn't ever seek it out. I'm almost glad to sit here and wait.  Earlier today, I waited for my daughter at the orthodontist. The orthodontist tries to appeal to his clientele who are between the ages of 12-18. The music that plays in his waiting room makes waiting less fun.  Later today I'll sit and wait for my elderly mother while she sees her doctor. Mom's doctor should play music in her waiting room, maybe some Elvis or Sinatra for the old waiting people. I don't recall there being any music piped in to keep the old folks calm and happy. All I recollect hearing at Mom's doctor's office is shuffling, sniffling, the occasional dry cough and the flipping of magazine pages. ...

My husband is sewing a giant pillow like thing to tuck next to the bottom of the front door to keep the draft out. He is using some of the left over red felt from Halloween costumes and some of the kids out-grown t-shirts as stuffing. He and my son sit together on the couch, my son is sewing up the end of the pillow while my husband gives him gentle pointers and encouragement. My husband is much better at sewing than I am. My husband knows actual stitches, their official names as well as their proper execution. Glad he's around to teach the kids this stuff. I've been scuffing around today in my pj's and my husband's old grey plaid robe all day. I've got grey baggy circles under my eyes that coordinate nicely with the robe. I'm feeling a bit run down and am so grateful that I can spend the day inside, puttering around, chatting with the family, making soup with the Thanksgiving leftovers, taking it easy. I'm grateful that my husband ran errands for m...

Earlier today, my husband and I helped out my mom, We gave the kids a lot of space to do the stuff they like to do without nagging them. Later in the day the four of us played a board game, we ate a big dinner, and my husband made the kids awesome red felt squid hats. I'd explain but I have other stuff to do. Suffice it to say, we're content, the kids are adorable, and my husband is cool for sewing hats. Right now I'm wedged on the couch with my daughter, a cat, the dog, and my husband. My son sits close by. We're watching Man vs Wild.  Man is doing crazy shit. He's eating a spider and drinking his own urine. Oh dear. But the beyond the content of the program we're watching, the thing is, we're watching the show together. And we're not the kind of family to just watch quietly; we add commentary and say silly things, and it's a fun way to be funny and smart together. Today's blog post is going to be short so I can go back to being with t...

It's been a great Thanksgiving. We managed with the help of a good friend to get my mom into the house. She can't walk well so it was tricky getting her up the stairs, but it worked out. The house was clean enough, the kids were good enough, the food was plentiful. I made good gravy, the turkey wasn't dry. No arguments or vomiting happened. Some of my favorite people in the world were able to sit at the same table and it was a successful day. So, I write this tonight from the cozy recliner in the corner, feet up. The dog is sprawled across the couch sleeping, my son is quietly playing a game, my husband sits at the table gluing pictures in his collage book, my daughter is sitting at the table next to him, playing with beads, they're talking about books. A Pogues cd is playing in the background. The dishes are mostly done, and I'm not thinking about Christmas. I'm just going to sit in this warm moment, be in this safe place, enjoy the quiet. Very thankf...

Yesterday my mom set off her Life Alert alarm by accident. The Life Alert dude was alerted and called my mom to see if she was okay or if it was a false alarm. My mom didn't answer the phone. Life Alert dude called my sister to see if she thought he should call an ambulance. She wasn't sure. My sister called me to see if I thought she should tell Life Alert dude to call an ambulance. I had tried to call Mom a few minutes before all this and thought it was weird she didn't answer the phone so when my sis asked if she should give Life Alert dude a green light on the ambulance calling, I said, Yes, tell the dude to call an ambulance. I was worried and scared. I was so worried and scared I appeared to be completely calm. I'm never calm. When I appear calm, you know bad shit is happening. I couldn't leave my house to go to my mom's to see what the hell was happening, I felt completely useless. So I waited and finished cooking dinner and exuded an air of calm wh...

I used the self cleaning feature on the oven the other day. Self cleaning is sort of a funny term for what amounts to cremating the earthly remains of the lasagne and the pies that cooked over and ran all over the bottom of the oven at temps rivaling the fiery pits of Hell.   You lock the oven door, you set it to "clean" and it gets very fucking hot. A couple of hours later your kitchen is a tropical vacation destination, the house is full of toxic smoke, making it a polluted tropical vacation destination, and you have a very messy looking ashy mess in your oven. While way better than spray on oven cleaners, the self cleaning method has problems. For instance, the smoke and ash. I also worry about my oven bursting into flame. I worry that a flaming self cleaning oven would turn my entire house into a flaming self cleaning house. Which would be bad. Anyway. Thanksgiving is a high impact cooking holiday and it heralds the start of the holiday baking season as well, so I...

I'll be thankful when November is over and I won't need to blog every day. Although I might sign on for December, because despite the fact that blogging is starting to feel masturbatory and not in a good way, at least I'm doing something. But if  blog-sturbating in public is the measure of my productivity, perhaps it's time for me to reassess. Hey. Look. I made up a new word. Blog-sturbation, blog-sturbating. I'm fucking Shakespeare.  Now I'm laughing at my own jokes. I immediately feel that deep shame that comes with any sinful activity. Tsk tsk. 

1)    You and your partner have a shared history so you can have conversations that make no sense to anyone else: "You remember that time when..." (perform odd hand gesture and make whistling noises) "Of course I do!" You know they know exactly what you're talking about.  2)    Your partner remembers who you really are. You may not look like your younger self to anyone else, but to each other, you're the same.  3)    Chances are you are not going to grow old alone. 4)    Your partner knows what your weaknesses are and can jump in and give you a hand when you need it. 5)    They know what your strengths are and they aren't threatened, they think it's cool that you are awesome. 6)    Farting, belching, scratching, morning breath, it's okay. 7)    You will never have to recount all the horror stories of your youth to another romantic partner. I mean, damn, that's tedious.  8...

Well, I'm not going to wait until 11:30 tonight to write today's blog post. Waiting until 11:30 last evening didn't really work out well for me, but yesterday was sort of a bad day, maybe the worst day in a short series of successive suck days in a row, so I'm letting it be okay. I'm thinking about all the stuff that needs to be done before Thanksgiving. 1) clean oven Hey wait, do I really need to clean the oven? Perhaps the smoldering black residue in the oven will impart a nice smoky flavor to the turkey. It sounds fucking gourmet.  Screw oven cleaning then. I'm going to cross that off the list and add smoked fucking gourmet turkey to the menu.  New #1)  clean out fridge I really have to do that because the inside of my fridge is a horror show of errant dog hairs, pinkish congealed tacky spills, and other scary shit. People not part of my immediate family may be opening my fridge this Thanksgiving, people I admire, so I must clean th...

I'm consciously trying to keep depression at arms length. This is not easy. I've been trying to put myself back together. This is not easy either, but it's necessary if I want to keep the depression away. Being raised in a home with a sadistic narcissistic parent has damaged me. As a child, I had to fracture my self to adapt to the crazy crap at home and while this kept me from feeling the bad stuff while it was happening, long term effects, not good. My spouse endured much of the same crap I did when he was growing up. The fact that we both are still alive, that we are not bitter mean stunted people, and that we've managed to be good parents to awesome kids despite everything, is evidence that we're fucking awesome. While I've just about knitted my fractured self together for the first time since I was 3 years old, everything isn't all better. I'm not better. I mean, I'm better than I was, but there is still work I need to do, and every da...

It's getting late.  I'm fighting the urge to bang my head against hard things.  I've written and abandoned several little essays.  Nobody cares.  Plus, I have messes to clean.  I would like to write about the amber necklace. I would like to write about the new shoes. I would settle for writing about today's visit with my mother. I would settle for an essay about my daughter's Spanish homework. I would even be okay with writing about cleaning houses. But nope. It's not going to happen. It's all about the scurrying around and never getting anything completely done.  Piles of dirty laundry to be washed, piles of clean laundry to be folded, piles of dishes, but Jesus Christ, I haven't I been doing laundry and washing dishes all fucking day?! How can there still be laundry and dishes?! HOW?! The relentless drudgery is eroding my soul. Okay, that's a bit over the top.  No. No it's not over th...

Other people need me. Right now. I can sit here quietly and stare at the wall all evening and be completely ignored but the moment I make for the laptop to try to write a blog entry, I'm 100% in demand. The pulse in my ears is almost as loud as the conversation that the kids are having. The dog is licking the floor, don't know why, and the noise is driving me toward insanity. I have had a headache for two days now. But hey. That's okay. The scene: The dining room table, again, always. The time: 7 in the evening. It's completely dark outside, the light inside has a yellowish glare, it must be my headache. My son is to my left, working on his 5th grade math, stem and leaf graphs, and I have no idea what that means. My daughter is sitting to my right making a paper celestial sphere model which resembles a paper lantern and has become her obsession as she tapes and re-tapes and trims and offers a running commentary on it all. The boy asks math questions that...

Real life, you are a fucker-upper. That's okay. Relinquishing my grip on the fantasy of being able to plan ahead, finding immediate relief of self imposed angst and worry. From last night my today plans went like this: 1)  rise and shine at 5 a.m. because I go to bed at a decent hour 2)  raise children from their slumber with a warm smile and kind words 3)  prepare healthy foods 4)  bid both my children happiness and success and send them off to school 5)  shower 6)  visit Mom at nursing home at 9 am 7)  go to Mom's apartment and clean up in preparation for her going being discharged from nursing home tomorrow 8)  go to grocery store for Mom 9)  return to Mom's apartment with her food 10) go to my therapist at 11 11) go back to nursing home with stuff Mom needs for tomorrow 12) go home and clean up my own crap 13) Welcome my eldest child home at 2:15 14) do the all the other stuff and usual homework dinner routine...etc ...

 Telling regret to fuck off is the hardest thing I've ever done. Coming in a close second was the time I put a dust ruffle on a king size bed by myself.  No easy task, let me tell you. But still king size bed solo dust ruffle installation, slightly easier than telling regret to fuck off. My life was all about the regret. I felt every choice I made was the wrong choice. Making choices was painful no matter how inconsequential the subject. Just choosing the "right" word during a conversation was enough to make me want to weep. So much pressure. Every exchange became painful. Talking to the cashier at the grocery store? Painful. I might say the wrong thing. Chit chat at a public gathering? Oh please, you obviously want me dead. Everyday decisions were agonizing. What's for dinner? OH MY GOD!? How could you ask such a question?! We could have spaghetti but so many carbs! We're all going to die! What kind of soap to buy for the kids? The cheap stuff...

I am pressed for time this evening. Weekends are pretty full and there isn't much time for me to do the bloggy thing. When I am finally able to sit still and think about stuff, I find myself sitting in the same old place -- dining room table facing the kitchen, thinking about the same old stuff -- kids, housework, elderly parent.  Tonight I'm multitasking. My son is working on homework while I sit here trying to keep my promise to blog everyday. Every other word I write is interrupted by a question or a comment from my boy. Sometimes these interruptions are ordinary and expected. How do you spell ____? How do you spell _____? Or, how do you spell ____? Okay, we're not awesome spellers. Most of the questions are spelling related and that's cool because I can spell most 5th grade words. Also I have access to online dictionaries which makes me seem like a smarter lady than I am in real life. That's cool.  If the questions are math related, my son is out...

What follows is a rather choppy account of my personal philosophy. It informs how I parent and how I do other stuff, too. Kids need unconditional love. They need  to be cherished. If children are cherished and respected at home when they are small, they won't exploit others trying to create a world that will fulfill their unmet childhood needs when they are grown. It's okay to teach kids that they are special as long as you also let them know that everyone is special. We each possess unique qualities that make us indispensable to the greater world. You have gifts, talents, and strengths. Everyone does. You are special. Everyone is. No one has to be perfect to be deserving. This is good because perfect is impossible. No one is more special. The specialness of others doesn't diminish what is special about you. It's all good.  We can admire our own abilities without becoming arrogant snots because we acknowledge that others have admirable traits too. We feel comforta...

As a mother I have dealt with so many fearful disgusting messes, I've developed an immunity to gross. In my younger years touching nasty stuff would send me yipping and hopping and shaking my hands around like some sort of weird yipping hopping hand shaking weird person. But since I got the Motherhood, overreacting to gross shit is a thing of the past! When my son was a baby he was a wild little guy. In order to make dinner and keep him alive I had to strap him to my back in a baby backpack. He'd quickly get bored sitting up there with nothing death defying to do, and so in an effort to amuse himself, he'd grab handfuls of my hair in his adorable sticky baby fists and pull back with all his might causing my head to jerk back suddenly; whiplash! Fun! This was not a fun game for me. One evening while attempting to make food for dinner with my energetic son on my back, out of desperation and in a misguided attempt at self preservation, I gave him a wooden spoon play ...

Well, it's day 14 of the blog every day daily blogging challenge. Whew! I've been feeling anxious for a few days. That's okay because I have an all natural anxiety treatment: I call it the "eat everything in the house with special emphasis on foods high in fat, sugar, and salt, while writing snarky things on the internet" anxiety treatment plan. You can't get this kind of relief from a pill. Surcease of symptoms is short lived so one must administer the treatment hourly to achieve optimal results. Side effects may include headache, bloating, and loss of friends but it's totally worth it. It used to be I'd sit down at my typewriter with a pack of smokes and a pot of coffee and write like a crazed crazy person for hours. I was smoking like a toxic fume spewing chimney while plumbing the depths of my anguish and it was cathartic. But that was years ago. I'm much more careful with my health now. These days I'm hunkering down with my l...

So, I've been thinking about that unabashed orgy of American Corporate Greed and the Pavlovian Consumerist Response. You know, Black Friday. Let's just skip ahead in time, shall we? (Cue magic wand waving sounds now) Happy Thanksgiving! We're all high on tryptophan, feeling content and gassy, picking our teeth with the wishbone. We're thinking about the generous Pilgrims and their BFFs the helpful happy Indians. We push ourselves away from the table and the remains of our obscenely huge meal. We finish lecturing our kids about how they should count their blessings, that it's better to give than to receive, and that we should all remember the reason for the upcoming Christmas season. What was that reason again? No time for that silly shit now, it's almost 6 pm and FU-Mart will be opening soon! Grab your hat and bolt for the door. Stand back, Black Friday, make way for Black Thursday! Actually, if you want to get a good spot in line before the door...

Just for fun I checked out the Blogher daily blog writing prompt for today and I thought, hey. Okay. But why would anyone want to read about 5 things in my fridge and what I think of them? I don't really know.  Here we go then: Five things in my fridge and what I think of them: 1. Hot sauce. Sriracha, to be more precise. Two bottles, because I'd cry real tears if I ran out. I've loved Sriracha for a long time because it's delicious, not because I'm trendy. The very thought that I would obsess and adore a condiment and slather it liberally on everything I eat so people will think I'm hip and cool is STOO-PID. How the fuck many people watch me eat my meals? Not counting the dog, most days it's a grand total of two people, both under the age of 16, who will always think I'm uncool by default because they're my kids. If you count the dog among those who see me eat on a daily basis, it's still only two people, because he's a dog.  2. Sitt...