But Not For Me
Poor Leelo. His snorfles and coughs have gotten so bad that he's going to have to miss the Halloween festivities at Ep's house. Seymour and Iz will once again be the family delegates.
I snapped some quick pictures right before Iz left or else we'd have no evidence that Ella Devil walked the earth on this dark evening (although by that time she'd become Ella the one-horned kitty cat devil ballerina princess). Tried to get some pictures of Superhero Leelo with Miss Ella, but he was hating his cape and not being compliant. Then again, a blurry action shot is probably the most appropriate depiction of a caped crusader.
Anyhow, the poor little bit is stuck home again, with a mommy who sings 30's and 40's love songs all day even after repeated pleas of "No sing! Mommy no sing!" I can't help it if I'm In The Mood For Love is within my range. It's such a swoony song and I have limited control over the tunes-spewing portion of my brain, so five seconds after I stop it bubbles up again. IMHO he should be grateful that I've finally shaken off The Golden Vanity. Iz didn't seem to mind my warbling. She asked me why I like the first song so much and I told her it reminds me of her father (that would be Seymour).
Iz: You love him a lot?
Squid: Yes, I really do. He's dreamy.
Iz: You like it when he gives you that good lovin'?
Squid: (WHAT THE HELL?!?!?!?!?) Um, yes. I love him a lot. (Briskly) Time to put your devil tail back on!
10.31.2003
Lovely Water
Ah, blessed rain. Too bad it had to start on Halloween, but after watching a good part of San Diego burn this weekend, I'm more than happy for the heavens to dump on my dead, dry, highly combustible yard (do you want to rake a steeply graded quarter acre of oak leaves and poison oak? Neither do I).
Leelo woke up with an uncontrollably runny nose. This usually makes me fret about escalations into ear infections, but after the drain of this past week I am delighted for him to miss his usual appointments and for us to have four hours to fart about at home. We never get this time together any more, except for the occasional rushed lunch hour. The intrusion of his ABA program into my home and daily life is a source of considerable stress for me--I need a lot of adult-free chill time, and used to get it during our two or three free mornings a week. Now I get it NEVER, so lolling about with my little guy this morning has been particularly sweet.
Turns out the stomach bug I gave my brother reamed him out so badly and protractedly that he missed his window to visit us. Bummer, but again I am happy for the break. We'll see him and Maggie at Thanksgiving anyhow.
Leelo ran up and handed me his toy bird a few minutes ago. It was very important that I see the bird, apparently--he looked into my eyes with all the effort he could muster, as though he could will me to understand what he was thinking. We then spent some time making bird sounds, which was probably not exactly what he wanted, but was enough to get a giggle. A real giggle, not the gibbering monkey giggle that signals that our boy has left the building. A very nice morning indeed.
Ah, blessed rain. Too bad it had to start on Halloween, but after watching a good part of San Diego burn this weekend, I'm more than happy for the heavens to dump on my dead, dry, highly combustible yard (do you want to rake a steeply graded quarter acre of oak leaves and poison oak? Neither do I).
Leelo woke up with an uncontrollably runny nose. This usually makes me fret about escalations into ear infections, but after the drain of this past week I am delighted for him to miss his usual appointments and for us to have four hours to fart about at home. We never get this time together any more, except for the occasional rushed lunch hour. The intrusion of his ABA program into my home and daily life is a source of considerable stress for me--I need a lot of adult-free chill time, and used to get it during our two or three free mornings a week. Now I get it NEVER, so lolling about with my little guy this morning has been particularly sweet.
Turns out the stomach bug I gave my brother reamed him out so badly and protractedly that he missed his window to visit us. Bummer, but again I am happy for the break. We'll see him and Maggie at Thanksgiving anyhow.
Leelo ran up and handed me his toy bird a few minutes ago. It was very important that I see the bird, apparently--he looked into my eyes with all the effort he could muster, as though he could will me to understand what he was thinking. We then spent some time making bird sounds, which was probably not exactly what he wanted, but was enough to get a giggle. A real giggle, not the gibbering monkey giggle that signals that our boy has left the building. A very nice morning indeed.
10.30.2003
Feeling Devilish
Pink sparkly horns-sporting Iz to handsomely coiffed and dressed kid store clerk: "...and I'm going to be a devil ballerina princess for Halloween!"
Clerk (to me): "Is that because she couldn't make up her mind?"
Iz (to clerk): "No, I am a DEVIL BALLERINA PRINCESS. I live in Devil Land with my three sisters. I only wear pink, except my tail is red."
Clerk (to me): "Aren't they cute at this age when they're so imaginative?"
Iz (to clerk): "Ghosts are actually people who died. Did you know that?"
Clerk: "Oh, my. Ahem." (silence)
Pink sparkly horns-sporting Iz to handsomely coiffed and dressed kid store clerk: "...and I'm going to be a devil ballerina princess for Halloween!"
Clerk (to me): "Is that because she couldn't make up her mind?"
Iz (to clerk): "No, I am a DEVIL BALLERINA PRINCESS. I live in Devil Land with my three sisters. I only wear pink, except my tail is red."
Clerk (to me): "Aren't they cute at this age when they're so imaginative?"
Iz (to clerk): "Ghosts are actually people who died. Did you know that?"
Clerk: "Oh, my. Ahem." (silence)
10.29.2003
Hate. Being. Busy.
Decided against posting about the mountain biking misadventures of this past weekend. No time to dwell on pissiness; too much to do. I can't even describe how busy these past two days have been and this week will continue to be as it is SO BORING to anyone who's not me. My friends who get things done, I don't understand how they do it and probably never will. My victory for the day will be remembering to wash underoos so that we're not all breezy in the morning (thankfully Iz likes few things better than going commando under her jammies).
My brother JD and his girlfriend Maggie are going to be staying with us for a few days starting tomorrow. I wonder if they realize they'll be in a child-full house for Hallowe'en? Well, it'll be part of the experience they say they're after--their stated goal is for us to teach them the wonders and practical aspects of child rearing, since they managed to knock themselves up a few months back. (For anyone who's counting, that's three out-of-wedlock births among four siblings. Who says we Catholics don't know how to have fun?)
Today I dragged a squadron of mommies and spawn out to Bob's, The Best Pumpkin Patch Ever. It is on a hillside overlooking the ocean--but wait, in between the patch and the ocean is a huge field full of lowing cows. The patch itself is of the pick-where-they-grow variety, so many pumpikins still have twisty dry leaves attached to them. It is also huge--about two acres--so the kids can run and run and run and hopefully still hear you yell at them. On one side is a 20 foot high hay bale pyramid for the tots to climb, and below it is a mellow petting zoo. The whole dealie turns golden as the sun sets behind the cows. Then the ambient temperature drops by 20 degrees and everyone scuttles off--but not before some of us take advantage of the day-before-the-day-before Halloween sale and run off with a full wheelbarrel of pumpkins for $20.
Today may have been the first time Leelo realized roosters are real--he ran up to petting zoo's nice healthy birds and started yelling "cock-a-doodle doo!" Rah! Iz has been great about getting him to practice his animal sounds, even if she does get overenthusiastically loud and in his face sometimes.
Decided against posting about the mountain biking misadventures of this past weekend. No time to dwell on pissiness; too much to do. I can't even describe how busy these past two days have been and this week will continue to be as it is SO BORING to anyone who's not me. My friends who get things done, I don't understand how they do it and probably never will. My victory for the day will be remembering to wash underoos so that we're not all breezy in the morning (thankfully Iz likes few things better than going commando under her jammies).
My brother JD and his girlfriend Maggie are going to be staying with us for a few days starting tomorrow. I wonder if they realize they'll be in a child-full house for Hallowe'en? Well, it'll be part of the experience they say they're after--their stated goal is for us to teach them the wonders and practical aspects of child rearing, since they managed to knock themselves up a few months back. (For anyone who's counting, that's three out-of-wedlock births among four siblings. Who says we Catholics don't know how to have fun?)
Today I dragged a squadron of mommies and spawn out to Bob's, The Best Pumpkin Patch Ever. It is on a hillside overlooking the ocean--but wait, in between the patch and the ocean is a huge field full of lowing cows. The patch itself is of the pick-where-they-grow variety, so many pumpikins still have twisty dry leaves attached to them. It is also huge--about two acres--so the kids can run and run and run and hopefully still hear you yell at them. On one side is a 20 foot high hay bale pyramid for the tots to climb, and below it is a mellow petting zoo. The whole dealie turns golden as the sun sets behind the cows. Then the ambient temperature drops by 20 degrees and everyone scuttles off--but not before some of us take advantage of the day-before-the-day-before Halloween sale and run off with a full wheelbarrel of pumpkins for $20.
Today may have been the first time Leelo realized roosters are real--he ran up to petting zoo's nice healthy birds and started yelling "cock-a-doodle doo!" Rah! Iz has been great about getting him to practice his animal sounds, even if she does get overenthusiastically loud and in his face sometimes.
10.28.2003
Back Home Thank You Very Much
I am still livid about today's mountain bike happenings, and so will post about that after I've cooled down a bit. Random bits instead, to give you the general flavor of my mood:
My parents' home was and is still very far from the fires--they are fortunate. Still, the ash and air quality in their area were so gnarly that a police officer wearing a surgical mask barred us from a neighborhood playground. Slunk back home with the screaming disappointed kids and found my poor mom wracked by the same dreaded GI bug that smacked me around again this A.M., oh joy. All told, we spent day three trapped inside my parents' Dr. Seuss-designed condo and felt very lucky to have a roof over our heads. Then it was off to catch our plane.
People who give into their kids' nagging are complete fuckheads and drive me nuts, since they couldn't do a better job of training their kids to be tenacious manipulators. Got to witness lots of kids working that mommy mommy candy candy please please no please no please no please okay fine action while we were stuck at the San Diego airport for FOUR HOURS this evening. I'll tell you, though, the urge to give into a girl who will not ever back down or shut up and will natter on at you full-force for seven hours straight can be overwhelming. I usually end up flailing for ultimatums whenever she goes deep into not-listening territory:
"Stand right there, put your hands against that wall and don't move a muscle. Don't even talk"
"Can I blink my eyes? That's moving muscles"
to self: "Goddammit"
to Iz: "Try not to. No talking"
"What about my fingers?"
"Did you hear me? No talking!"
"Can I breathe? That's moving muscles"
to self: "Goddammit"
to Iz: "You can breathe. But you need to stop talking now because I'm starting to get angry. Look at my eyes. Do you want me to be really angry?"
"No, mommy. I'm sorry. Can we go to McDevil's on the way home?"
to self: "AIIIIIGH!!!!"
I ended up giving her the silent treatment, where I will interact with but will not speak to her for five minutes. Then we gave "good listening" another try and it went much more smoothly (e.g., walking with me to the shuttle bus rather than playing hopscotch as I push Leelo in the stroller and juggle a roller bag, two car seats, and a backpack). I fucking hate being cornered into that kind of punitive parenting, but she is exasperating. And it is getting increasingly difficult to remember that the little girl pressing her nose to the airplane window and yelling out "I can see the curvature of the earth!" is, emotionally, very much four years old.
On to Leelo. He is doing well, and we seem to have our boy back. Lots of great eye contact and minimal nuttiness. If he does start getting nutty, I say "no crazies!" and he laughs and parrots back "no crazies!" He's attempting to construct sentences using "don't want," but can't quite grasp the logistics. He's starting to imitate Iz's sentences. Nice!
Soooo bushed. Nap time, sleepy time, jammie time too! (How much Playhouse Disney did we watch this weekend? Don't ask, don't even ask.)
I am still livid about today's mountain bike happenings, and so will post about that after I've cooled down a bit. Random bits instead, to give you the general flavor of my mood:
My parents' home was and is still very far from the fires--they are fortunate. Still, the ash and air quality in their area were so gnarly that a police officer wearing a surgical mask barred us from a neighborhood playground. Slunk back home with the screaming disappointed kids and found my poor mom wracked by the same dreaded GI bug that smacked me around again this A.M., oh joy. All told, we spent day three trapped inside my parents' Dr. Seuss-designed condo and felt very lucky to have a roof over our heads. Then it was off to catch our plane.
People who give into their kids' nagging are complete fuckheads and drive me nuts, since they couldn't do a better job of training their kids to be tenacious manipulators. Got to witness lots of kids working that mommy mommy candy candy please please no please no please no please okay fine action while we were stuck at the San Diego airport for FOUR HOURS this evening. I'll tell you, though, the urge to give into a girl who will not ever back down or shut up and will natter on at you full-force for seven hours straight can be overwhelming. I usually end up flailing for ultimatums whenever she goes deep into not-listening territory:
"Stand right there, put your hands against that wall and don't move a muscle. Don't even talk"
"Can I blink my eyes? That's moving muscles"
to self: "Goddammit"
to Iz: "Try not to. No talking"
"What about my fingers?"
"Did you hear me? No talking!"
"Can I breathe? That's moving muscles"
to self: "Goddammit"
to Iz: "You can breathe. But you need to stop talking now because I'm starting to get angry. Look at my eyes. Do you want me to be really angry?"
"No, mommy. I'm sorry. Can we go to McDevil's on the way home?"
to self: "AIIIIIGH!!!!"
I ended up giving her the silent treatment, where I will interact with but will not speak to her for five minutes. Then we gave "good listening" another try and it went much more smoothly (e.g., walking with me to the shuttle bus rather than playing hopscotch as I push Leelo in the stroller and juggle a roller bag, two car seats, and a backpack). I fucking hate being cornered into that kind of punitive parenting, but she is exasperating. And it is getting increasingly difficult to remember that the little girl pressing her nose to the airplane window and yelling out "I can see the curvature of the earth!" is, emotionally, very much four years old.
On to Leelo. He is doing well, and we seem to have our boy back. Lots of great eye contact and minimal nuttiness. If he does start getting nutty, I say "no crazies!" and he laughs and parrots back "no crazies!" He's attempting to construct sentences using "don't want," but can't quite grasp the logistics. He's starting to imitate Iz's sentences. Nice!
Soooo bushed. Nap time, sleepy time, jammie time too! (How much Playhouse Disney did we watch this weekend? Don't ask, don't even ask.)
10.26.2003
We're stuck in San Diego
With black smoky skies, a cancelled flight, and fires that are edging closer and making my mom completely freak out. So, no playgroup, ABA therapy, or school tomorrow as our rescheduled flight doesn't get in until late Monday evening.
We arrived in San Diego Friday night. Leelo has some pre-dawn barfing that A.M., but he's a life-long barfer so we don't usually interrupt our schedule for these incidents; we just clean him up and go. He seemed fine all day long, through speech therapy and his ABA session with Therapist L. No reason to delay our trip.
We headed off to the airport (the two kids and I), and arrived just as Leelo began a six hour tantrum. I am not kidding. He screamed and thrashed from the time we got through security, through the entire flight, through the entire car ride home from the airport (until the last 10 minutes, when he crashed out), upon waking up and finding himself in his grandparents' home 30 minutes later, for another particularly intense hour, all the way to the urgent care clinic, and for an additional hour in the waiting room there. Then, 10 minutes before we were admitted, he calmed down, for no reason I could perceive. I had completely lost it by this time, since Leelo never tantrum for more than 30 seconds, and was micrometers from tears and howling myself. What if his ear tubes had fallen out, and the air pressure changes during the flight ruptured his inner ear workings? What about meningitis? Severe sinus infections? Brain tumors? The good people at the ER poked, prodded, and shrugged. No idea, he looks fine to us, go home, lady.
In the meantime Seymour and Floyd had arrived, and they plus my parents and Iz had wandered over to a local Italian joint for dinner. I met them there, proclaimed eminent domain over all alcohol due to my stress level, and polished off everyone's wine plus a new glass of my own. Afterwards we all went home, put the kids to bed, and crashed. Seymour and I crashed a bit later than the kids.
(There is something slightly naughty about doing the deed in your parents' house. Even after marriage and kids, it still feels like you're getting away with something. Or so I thought, until halfway through our very social morning when I looked down and noticed that my pajama pants were on inside out.)
Leelo and I slept in very late. I awoke, stretched, yawned, sat up, and almost passed out. What the hell? Turns out that Iz and I (and Leelo the day before, giving that day's hysterics an explanation) had contracted the dreaded stomach bug that had laid Seymour low on Monday. Iz spent the entirety of yesterday barfing, and was eventually given her very own pink plastic bucket so that my mom didn't have to shampoo the carpet every hour. I had the opposite-ended problem, jack-rabbiting into the nearest powder room every 20 minutes, and couldn't eat or drink anything. Thankfully Leelo seemed to be over his dealie, and was a happy boy for all the various friends and relatives getting in his face. While all this was going on, the poor Little Flower was the victim of interminable flight delays in Phoenix, and didn't get in until 8 hours later than she'd intended. None of these horrors prevented Seymour and Floyd from jetting off on their mountain biking expedition, though. Twits.
This morning we all feel better, but San Diego is decidedly worse. We woke to ash drifting down from the sky. If you'd had to judge the weather conditions at a glance, you'd say it was snowing--a weird, dirty snow. The sun is huge and red, and you can look directly at if you want to see the solar flares. My brother called this morning as he was driving from San Diego to Phoenix, to let us know that he could see houses burning from the freeway. My mom is about to gather up all her photo albums. We're not supposed to leave the house unless we have to (and I have to, Leelo is out of his funky rice bread and eats nothing else), aren't even supposed to run major appliances or use extra water or more than one TV. So I guess I'll sign off now.
With black smoky skies, a cancelled flight, and fires that are edging closer and making my mom completely freak out. So, no playgroup, ABA therapy, or school tomorrow as our rescheduled flight doesn't get in until late Monday evening.
We arrived in San Diego Friday night. Leelo has some pre-dawn barfing that A.M., but he's a life-long barfer so we don't usually interrupt our schedule for these incidents; we just clean him up and go. He seemed fine all day long, through speech therapy and his ABA session with Therapist L. No reason to delay our trip.
We headed off to the airport (the two kids and I), and arrived just as Leelo began a six hour tantrum. I am not kidding. He screamed and thrashed from the time we got through security, through the entire flight, through the entire car ride home from the airport (until the last 10 minutes, when he crashed out), upon waking up and finding himself in his grandparents' home 30 minutes later, for another particularly intense hour, all the way to the urgent care clinic, and for an additional hour in the waiting room there. Then, 10 minutes before we were admitted, he calmed down, for no reason I could perceive. I had completely lost it by this time, since Leelo never tantrum for more than 30 seconds, and was micrometers from tears and howling myself. What if his ear tubes had fallen out, and the air pressure changes during the flight ruptured his inner ear workings? What about meningitis? Severe sinus infections? Brain tumors? The good people at the ER poked, prodded, and shrugged. No idea, he looks fine to us, go home, lady.
In the meantime Seymour and Floyd had arrived, and they plus my parents and Iz had wandered over to a local Italian joint for dinner. I met them there, proclaimed eminent domain over all alcohol due to my stress level, and polished off everyone's wine plus a new glass of my own. Afterwards we all went home, put the kids to bed, and crashed. Seymour and I crashed a bit later than the kids.
(There is something slightly naughty about doing the deed in your parents' house. Even after marriage and kids, it still feels like you're getting away with something. Or so I thought, until halfway through our very social morning when I looked down and noticed that my pajama pants were on inside out.)
Leelo and I slept in very late. I awoke, stretched, yawned, sat up, and almost passed out. What the hell? Turns out that Iz and I (and Leelo the day before, giving that day's hysterics an explanation) had contracted the dreaded stomach bug that had laid Seymour low on Monday. Iz spent the entirety of yesterday barfing, and was eventually given her very own pink plastic bucket so that my mom didn't have to shampoo the carpet every hour. I had the opposite-ended problem, jack-rabbiting into the nearest powder room every 20 minutes, and couldn't eat or drink anything. Thankfully Leelo seemed to be over his dealie, and was a happy boy for all the various friends and relatives getting in his face. While all this was going on, the poor Little Flower was the victim of interminable flight delays in Phoenix, and didn't get in until 8 hours later than she'd intended. None of these horrors prevented Seymour and Floyd from jetting off on their mountain biking expedition, though. Twits.
This morning we all feel better, but San Diego is decidedly worse. We woke to ash drifting down from the sky. If you'd had to judge the weather conditions at a glance, you'd say it was snowing--a weird, dirty snow. The sun is huge and red, and you can look directly at if you want to see the solar flares. My brother called this morning as he was driving from San Diego to Phoenix, to let us know that he could see houses burning from the freeway. My mom is about to gather up all her photo albums. We're not supposed to leave the house unless we have to (and I have to, Leelo is out of his funky rice bread and eats nothing else), aren't even supposed to run major appliances or use extra water or more than one TV. So I guess I'll sign off now.
10.23.2003
I'm Supposed To Be Packing
Floyd talked Seymour into a San Diego mountain biking weekend, and we're all coming along for the trip. Why not--my folks are letting us stay with them, and only a fool would skip free babysitting. And, just in case it comes across differently while I'm bitching and moaning--I like my folks. Plus we'll get to see Floyd's adorable wife, The Little Flower, for the first time since February (the bastards moved to Phoenix two years ago. Something about houses costing half as much as the average down payments around here). Seymour told me not to worry about his being almost out of clean underwear as he was going to be wearing mountain biking shorts all weekend anyhow. Ewwww.
Leelo's doing okay today. Still slightly nutty, but after various experimentations I believe the juice theory carries the most weight. He's also resumed asking to squeeze "Mommy's elbow"--his standard self-soothing tic--instead of running around clacking two matching items together, which is his coping tic during regressions.
Lately he seems to be cluing in to how much time he spends away from me, and instead with the various therapists, He has been very clingy this week, and has been commanding the therapists to go "Bye-Bye!" upon arrival. Last night our babysitter put him to bed, as I had run off for an evening with MYSELF. He started wandering the house this morning at 5 A.M., crying for Mommy. Poor little bit. I let him fall asleep in the office bed next to me tonight, and he is a happy little bugger indeed.
Iz has decided to be Ella the devil ballerina princess for Halloween. Um, okay. Anyone have a pink tutu they're not using? She wants Leelo to be Kal-El. Her reasoning being that I got him a red cape, Superman wears a red cape, and Superman's name was still Kal-El when he was Leelo's age.
Anyhow, off to SD in the morning. Here's something to play with while I'm gone:
Take Word Association Test
Floyd talked Seymour into a San Diego mountain biking weekend, and we're all coming along for the trip. Why not--my folks are letting us stay with them, and only a fool would skip free babysitting. And, just in case it comes across differently while I'm bitching and moaning--I like my folks. Plus we'll get to see Floyd's adorable wife, The Little Flower, for the first time since February (the bastards moved to Phoenix two years ago. Something about houses costing half as much as the average down payments around here). Seymour told me not to worry about his being almost out of clean underwear as he was going to be wearing mountain biking shorts all weekend anyhow. Ewwww.
Leelo's doing okay today. Still slightly nutty, but after various experimentations I believe the juice theory carries the most weight. He's also resumed asking to squeeze "Mommy's elbow"--his standard self-soothing tic--instead of running around clacking two matching items together, which is his coping tic during regressions.
Lately he seems to be cluing in to how much time he spends away from me, and instead with the various therapists, He has been very clingy this week, and has been commanding the therapists to go "Bye-Bye!" upon arrival. Last night our babysitter put him to bed, as I had run off for an evening with MYSELF. He started wandering the house this morning at 5 A.M., crying for Mommy. Poor little bit. I let him fall asleep in the office bed next to me tonight, and he is a happy little bugger indeed.
Iz has decided to be Ella the devil ballerina princess for Halloween. Um, okay. Anyone have a pink tutu they're not using? She wants Leelo to be Kal-El. Her reasoning being that I got him a red cape, Superman wears a red cape, and Superman's name was still Kal-El when he was Leelo's age.
Anyhow, off to SD in the morning. Here's something to play with while I'm gone:
| I have issues with... |
| broken drugs porn discipline camping |
Notes. On Music.
Because Badger is writing about music and I am a copycat.
It would be impossible to convey the surreality of hearing No Doubt performing It's My Life. Unless you went to my high school. There's some full circle looping for you.
Why the hell can't I buy Elvis Costello CDs that recreate my youthful listening experiences? Why do I have to take on 20 or 30 tracks that I don't give a fuck about since they weren't originally on that album?
I am so glad that Fishbone is finally getting the airplay they deserve.
Because Badger is writing about music and I am a copycat.
It would be impossible to convey the surreality of hearing No Doubt performing It's My Life. Unless you went to my high school. There's some full circle looping for you.
Why the hell can't I buy Elvis Costello CDs that recreate my youthful listening experiences? Why do I have to take on 20 or 30 tracks that I don't give a fuck about since they weren't originally on that album?
I am so glad that Fishbone is finally getting the airplay they deserve.
10.22.2003
Cheap Therapy
No offense to Dee's two degrees or Jo’s mom, but I’m not a big fan of therapy. I tried it thrice and didn’t get much out of it besides a whole lot of "So, what do YOU think?" In each case my issues arose from stupid habits like hanging on to jobs I despised. When I lost the habits, the issues went with them. The therapists, bless their earnest little hearts, had little to do with it.
(If you have any sort of affection for me, you might not want to read the rest of this post. I, however, need to purge this crap so that I can get to work.)
Lately my mental scene’s been a bit trickier, as I’ve been grappling with scenarios less superficial than whether or not to barf after dinner. Or pondering them, really--to be grappling with them I’d have to be actively engaged. That is the real issue.
I used to drop by Plain Layne sometimes, before she opted out of blogging [Ed. note: she was back about two days later]. Her space was never dull, not with Josh and Ryan leading the commenting chorus. She hooked me with posts about her birth mother and taking in a young mother and baby. Good stuff. But what really got me was her straightforwardness, and the way she could crystallize her emotional state in two or three sentences. She seemed to write from her core. I want a core!
I am extraordinarily jealous of people like her who can harness their innermost emotions and thoughts. Maybe I surround myself with these beings and gorge myself on their writings to make up for my own deficits. (If you are reading this, then it is likely that you are one of the hosts I parasitize.) Impossible to explain how exciting it is to be with people who have great pulsing plasma clouds of intellect and fury suspended over their heads, whose every word crackles with energy. Too bad I don’t know how to have a non-superficial conversation with them--my energy tapping process could be streamlined.
My own core just isn’t there. Well, maybe it is--I don’t know. But if I dig down I hit a tough, fibrous sheath, and whatever’s inside is alien to me. I’ve never bothered to break through. Never needed to, until now. On the off chance that it contains a magical source of strength and endurance, I need to break it open. I need to do it now. People are depending on me. So my fingers are the hammers, the keys my chisels. Chip, chip, clickety chip.
Here’s how the sheath works: it’s a network of my basest and purest emotions. They stay so tightly woven that I can’t wrest them free, nor can new ones find purchase. This means that, from what I can tell, I am a cold and calculating person for whom much of life is an interesting sociological experiment.
There are exceptions, of course. Nuclear torpedoes like coming home from a party at which a dear friend hadn’t shown up, and being told by my mom (ER nurse, plugged into such things) that the friend had swallowed a shotgun blast. Anger. Quick on that one if someone is fucking with my family or friends, or assholes are making decisions whose effects they can’t possibly comprehend (those fuckheads who got the "partial birth" abortion ban passed had best pray they’re at least fifty feet away if I ever get my hands on a red-hot poker). But usually, I’m observing rather than connecting.
Probably the best example of my onlooker’s approach to life happened during college, when two boys let me juggle them for over a year. I couldn’t believe they’d let me switch back and forth every few weeks, but they never turned me away. It was fascinating, to a bent girl. The power of sex? Again, I don’t know.
One boy was an ass and a loser, and in his case I’m not sorry. But the other was a sweet, funny physics boy who offered to stand up as the father of my child after the ass’s condom broke and I got knocked up and the ass tried to sue me for custody. (The baby was born a month early, so the ass found out too late that his 30 day window to prevent the child’s adoption had closed.) Ah, physics boy, I hope you and your rheometers are well.
Emotional remove did not serve my family well in Leelo’s case. This is not happening, this is not happening, this is not happening, for months and months and months. Wasted months. Were they critical? Did we miss our window? Since the medical and psychology communities know fuck-all about the causes of autism, we’ll probably never find out.
And now the hand grenade, the reason I need to crack open my chest and rally: My wee seven-year-old second cousin needs help.
[several paragraphs deleted]
It looks like the next step is the one that gets us actively involved, the one that we can’t take back, the one that commits us [deletions]. The one I need that magical core for. Chip, chip, chip. There'd better be something inside.
No offense to Dee's two degrees or Jo’s mom, but I’m not a big fan of therapy. I tried it thrice and didn’t get much out of it besides a whole lot of "So, what do YOU think?" In each case my issues arose from stupid habits like hanging on to jobs I despised. When I lost the habits, the issues went with them. The therapists, bless their earnest little hearts, had little to do with it.
(If you have any sort of affection for me, you might not want to read the rest of this post. I, however, need to purge this crap so that I can get to work.)
Lately my mental scene’s been a bit trickier, as I’ve been grappling with scenarios less superficial than whether or not to barf after dinner. Or pondering them, really--to be grappling with them I’d have to be actively engaged. That is the real issue.
I used to drop by Plain Layne sometimes, before she opted out of blogging [Ed. note: she was back about two days later]. Her space was never dull, not with Josh and Ryan leading the commenting chorus. She hooked me with posts about her birth mother and taking in a young mother and baby. Good stuff. But what really got me was her straightforwardness, and the way she could crystallize her emotional state in two or three sentences. She seemed to write from her core. I want a core!
I am extraordinarily jealous of people like her who can harness their innermost emotions and thoughts. Maybe I surround myself with these beings and gorge myself on their writings to make up for my own deficits. (If you are reading this, then it is likely that you are one of the hosts I parasitize.) Impossible to explain how exciting it is to be with people who have great pulsing plasma clouds of intellect and fury suspended over their heads, whose every word crackles with energy. Too bad I don’t know how to have a non-superficial conversation with them--my energy tapping process could be streamlined.
My own core just isn’t there. Well, maybe it is--I don’t know. But if I dig down I hit a tough, fibrous sheath, and whatever’s inside is alien to me. I’ve never bothered to break through. Never needed to, until now. On the off chance that it contains a magical source of strength and endurance, I need to break it open. I need to do it now. People are depending on me. So my fingers are the hammers, the keys my chisels. Chip, chip, clickety chip.
Here’s how the sheath works: it’s a network of my basest and purest emotions. They stay so tightly woven that I can’t wrest them free, nor can new ones find purchase. This means that, from what I can tell, I am a cold and calculating person for whom much of life is an interesting sociological experiment.
There are exceptions, of course. Nuclear torpedoes like coming home from a party at which a dear friend hadn’t shown up, and being told by my mom (ER nurse, plugged into such things) that the friend had swallowed a shotgun blast. Anger. Quick on that one if someone is fucking with my family or friends, or assholes are making decisions whose effects they can’t possibly comprehend (those fuckheads who got the "partial birth" abortion ban passed had best pray they’re at least fifty feet away if I ever get my hands on a red-hot poker). But usually, I’m observing rather than connecting.
Probably the best example of my onlooker’s approach to life happened during college, when two boys let me juggle them for over a year. I couldn’t believe they’d let me switch back and forth every few weeks, but they never turned me away. It was fascinating, to a bent girl. The power of sex? Again, I don’t know.
One boy was an ass and a loser, and in his case I’m not sorry. But the other was a sweet, funny physics boy who offered to stand up as the father of my child after the ass’s condom broke and I got knocked up and the ass tried to sue me for custody. (The baby was born a month early, so the ass found out too late that his 30 day window to prevent the child’s adoption had closed.) Ah, physics boy, I hope you and your rheometers are well.
Emotional remove did not serve my family well in Leelo’s case. This is not happening, this is not happening, this is not happening, for months and months and months. Wasted months. Were they critical? Did we miss our window? Since the medical and psychology communities know fuck-all about the causes of autism, we’ll probably never find out.
And now the hand grenade, the reason I need to crack open my chest and rally: My wee seven-year-old second cousin needs help.
[several paragraphs deleted]
It looks like the next step is the one that gets us actively involved, the one that we can’t take back, the one that commits us [deletions]. The one I need that magical core for. Chip, chip, chip. There'd better be something inside.
http://enemyster.blogspot.com/
Ohhhhh...so good, so delicious! Gonna get me some more as soon as I finish writing this sentence.
Ohhhhh...so good, so delicious! Gonna get me some more as soon as I finish writing this sentence.
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