limesalttequila's Journal

3:27pm: I Hate Rachael Ray
and her 30-minute meals. First, and foremost, those meals are only 30 minutes if you have a little elf who washes, dices and buys all the stuff to cook 1st. I do not have an elf. I do not have a fairy or a pixie or even a sprite who does all the prep work which is obviously beneath her. I can not summon woodland creatures to forage on my behalf. A Rachael Ray 30-minute meal would take me 2 hours. I do not have 2 hours to get a meal on the table. I also do not have a pony. I realize a pony would not help me cook necessarily, but it's one more thing I don't have that Rachael Ray probably does.

Secondly, Rachael ray is cute. I hate cute. She has that pink, round Prednisone moon-face, while at the same time being like a size 5. She eats on TV, and she is still tiny. She is "perky" all the time, and she smiles and giggles girlishly. I hate her for her steroid abuse and her general lack of 'roid-rage as well as her metabolism. Unless she actually has an eating disorder. In which case I still hate her for her cuteness, but not her thinness.

Along with the cuteness, she also talks baby-talk. She calls things "sammies," and she then she giggles at her own cuteness. This makes me bleed from the eyes. If you are cute and talk baby talk and are inexplicably thin and have a pony and an elf, I probably hate you too. If you think I do not, it's only because I haven't told you yet. In actuality, I really do. There, now you've been told. Go call Rachael and commiserate on my hatefulness. But do it in under 30-minutes. She just doesn't have that kind of time.

10:12pm: the big C
Naw, it's no big deal really. I've dealt with lots worse than this. This, yeah, well, it's not terminal or anything. At worse they'll just take out my uterus-that's all. I was probably done having kids-and orgasms-anyways. I'll just be grateful that's all it is and thank some deity of your choosing that's all it is.

I'll be brave as I can be and I won't cry, really, I won't cry-I'll be grateful for what I have and I'll hold my chin up and I won't feel the least bit sorry for myself. I'm sure it's a blessing in disguise. How do I know what the future holds? Well, I guess I know what it doesn't hold. There, that's a blessing right there, all the things I won't have to worry about like birth control and unplanned pregnancies.

So, please don't send me links to support groups or information on cancer or pray for me, God, please don't do that. I'll be ok, but if you did want to do something for me, really, just leave me a note telling me you read this, because no one in my life but you knows how terrified I really am.

2:41pm: A Modesto Proposal
I’ve been hearing a lot of buzz about these Voluntary Extinctionists. Now this has got my brain in a veritable tizzy. I know that over population is a real and acute problem in our world-but a new one? Not by a long short. Now my good friend, Thomas Malthus, (I say “good friend” because it makes seem all well connected amongst the great thinkers-truth be told, Ol’ Tom’s been departed for about 200 years) had some pretty interesting talk on the subject. I love how everything old is new again. The thing I don’t get is why everyone over looks the obvious solution.

The basic premise of these Extinctionists is that if we, as a species, stop having babies, eventually we will die out, and that is good, right and salutary for to do. Now that’s just silly. The only ones that will die out, probably, are the ones not having sex. Now they might be exactly the same group (sour grapes anyone?), which would save us all a lot of trouble, but I’m scratching my head and thinking, well, um, haven’t we heard this abstinence is best policy before? Oh yeah, “Just say, ‘no thanks’, ‘I have a headache,’ and/or ‘I’m saving myself for after my second marriage.’” The other groups not procreating, monks, nuns and pedophiles (sorry for lumping them all together like that, it was, um, unintentional I assure you)-seem to have found a way to multiply asexually. Um, that is to say, they rarely have their own genetic children, um, that is to say they rarely claim to produce genetic off-spring. This may merit additional study, because it does fly in the face of traditional methods (one sperm, one egg, one big happy nuclear family), and I think would be hard pressed to conform to the Voluntary method of extinction. Now some far left radicals might call attention to the fact that dictating basic human functions like sex are not only pretty freakin’ hard to do, but raise grave ethical and moral issues. Pretty sure that the talk would be about producing a “super” race and the disparities among those allowed to reproduce et et et ad nasium. I know those liberals are a real pain in the ass.

See, I think they’ve got it all wrong, really. I think their working it from the wrong end of the continuum. The wrong end of the tally-whacker, as it were. What if instead of worrying so much about the front end, we take a little more off the back end? I mean, let’s face it, people are living longer. And judging from the line at the DMV, they’re driving longer too. This makes a huge mess for traffic in the morning when all I want to do is get to work and nurse my hang-over. They clog up the check out lines trying to make exact change with their bent, arthritic fingers; and let’s be frank, they totally over-whelm our ill-prepared health care system. With all those boomers coming of age, it’s time we take a hard look at how we’re going to deal with all those cranks in line at the bank, or talking to us at the gas pump about gout, or, shit, breathing my air. Yeah, MY air, because I’m still mostly young and pretty sure I am entitled to more than my share of resources. So, as I was saying, instead of trying to do something as difficult as provide free and universal birth control, funding women’s reproductive health and tackling issues of poverty, lofty goals though they may well be, let’s work on a real solution that will make life easier for all of us under, say, seventy.

Why seventy? Well, mostly it’s random, but after 70, really, is there much usefulness to society, really? Oh, I’m sure there are a few examples of people who did something wonderful to better mankind or made some great contribution or earned some great award, but truly these are exceptions. Most of us retire at 65 and wait around to, well, die, frankly. Sure we might take a vacation, contribute our meager savings and SSI checks to the gambling boats, but I think five years is plenty generous to be afforded these luxuries, after that, you’re a burden to the system and your families. Why not offer an alternative to the slow, wasting rot of old age? Go out in a blaze of glory and leave a less than pretty but not completely ravaged by time corpse?

So what my humble proposal consists of is not so much voluntary extinction, but something akin to it. Without boring anyone with the trivial details, other than to assure my gentle reader it would be painless, quick and very cost effective, I would suggest eliminating the top stratosphere of our population. I know there might be some objection to this idea, resistance even or possibly outrage, I think the reasonable mind will find this to be a more palatable and reasonable suggestion for population control. Of course this will offer immediate relief to the population crisis and sustainability over the course seems not unreasonable. We all die; knowing for sure when is a public service. Think of all the existential angst we could prevent! “When is my time up? Oh, next Thursday.” We would give all the procrastinators reason to finish their projects! This is surely not a new alternative, tipping my hat to Kurt Vonnegut, but mine offers a bit of a twist. Rather than just giving old folks a shove into the suicide box, let’s give them a vacation, on the house as it were. I think we could spare a few sunny spots where the elderly have already over-run the young sun bunnies. How about Modesto? Tampa? Flagstaff? We “requisition” a few cities, and ship off everyone on their birthdays. We treat them to a fantastic trip, accommodations-everything first glass-then after a pre-determined allotment, well, like I said, I’ll not be indelicate. We could make arrangements for couples to “travel” together thus relieving the youngsters of looking in on their respective bereaved parent. It’s a win-win.

Voluntary Extinction may be an admirable endeavor, but let’s face it, it’s not practical. If even in the Victorian Era with all its socially contrived mating disincentives off-springs were still produced, how in the world can anyone believe that as a species we can “voluntarily” and in numbers great enough to matter, control it in our current ultra-permissive culture? Rather than try to decrease our societal paradigm with mandates for reproduction cessation, let’s expand on our system of capitol punishment. I think this is a perfectly reasonable and expected outcropping of our existing values of both the aged and the care or lack there of for them. Trust me, this way is simpler for everyone.

1:35pm: Nature's Way
I hate AT&T. I loath them in a hot, festering blisters on your genitals sort of way (not that I have actually experienced hot, festering blisters on my genitals-really, I haven't; I had a really bad sunburn once where I got blisters all over my back, and I hated that a lot, so I'm just, ya' know extrapolating that I would hate have blisters anywhere down below probably a lot too without actually having had the experience. Being able to generalize from one situation to another is actually a higher order intellectual function-so, that I can IMAGINE the searing discomfort one might feel from weepy genital blisters, the burning the shear hell of it, actually represents how smart I am not that I have anything, ya' know, rank and contagious). I only got the fucking phone for emergencies and for those rare times when my ten-year-old might beat me home or those even rarer times when we have a sitter and the ever more infrequent occasions when my hubby is vacuuming and can't hear his cell phone. Anyway, we don't really need the phone is my point, but I shelled out the $100 to have it installed, the line fee, the taxes (I hate the taxes too, but not in the same way, more of an infected pustule on your gums sort of way. Where you know that achy, swollen problem needs to be addressed, but you hate doing it, but you have to otherwise you could lose that tooth and root canal just doesn't seem all that appealing, but you should do it anyway, kind of like the rules of grammar, where you know you should apply generally accepted principles of punctuation, but, damn it, you can't capture the frantic tone quite as well if you do and run-ons make the reader hold their breath, thus accentuating your plight. Ok. Take a breath.) and then $70 for the phone itself. It was $30 bucks for the first month-so, en totale (I like to sound all European-literate. I'm not really, but it makes me feel on occasion very superior when I can slip in something in another language, even though I don't really know if it's spelled correctly or pronounced correctly for that matter.) over $200 for a phone I only need if something goes horribly awry in my life. Ok, well, I rationalized $200 for a little piece of mind isn't that bad-I could easily spend that on a night out and not think twice about it-so I pony up the cash. Well, about a week ago AT&T blew up a transformer which knocked the power out for a solid square mile. Unfortunately, my office was slightly outside that radius, so it meant I couldn't have lunch anywhere close, but was still expected back in my allotted lunch "hour." So, yeah, I was inconvenienced and I don't get no apology, no compensation, no nuttin' from the big corporate meanies who ruined my opportunity to have a greasy Big Mac and side of fries-

Which reminds me, as an aside (because I love the asides, usually even more than the entree. Give me a big bowl of sautéed mushrooms and a baked potato loaded and I'm in veritable heaven-not that I actually believe there is an ethereal realm called Heaven or any such thing, but it's more of an euphemism meaning I really like something. The direct antithesis of runny open sores in your mouth or crusty scabs on your woo-hoo), my recently 5-year old broke his arm last week (on the bike he got for his birthday). He has become very contemplative, if not Zen-like in his response to all the appointments and x-rays, simply saying after every sentence, "That is the way of nature."

{All too chipper x-ray tech] "Ok, JC, we're going to take a picture of your arm, honey, hold still."
{JC nodding solemnly} "That is the way of nature."

Ace showed me a deep purple bruise on his groin area from falling off his bike the day before his brother's mishap and having the handle bar jammed into his bladder. JC informed him they would have to amputate his penis, because, "that is the way of nature." Conversely, he refused to take off the Venom costume he had worn solidly for three days because that is "NOT the way of nature." Apparently, nature is a real bitch about her ways. A lot like the phone company.

I think they used to call it Ma' Bell because that evoked images of someone you love (in a complicated sort of way), or at least someone you wouldn't readily call a fucking whore (ok, someone you wouldn't readily call a fucking whore out loud), someone who would make you cookies and give you Band-Aids-certainly not someone who would blow-up your phone lines because their service people didn't know "Hey! that's a power line you fucking retard!" and try to anally rape you out of $100 service call and $70 for every quarter hour (and who the fuck says that? Quarter hour-those pretentious fucks) thereafter. And the only reason I knew anything was amiss at all was not because they copped to their mistake and offered to rectify it, but because I got an alarmed e-mail from my mother (whom actually did make me cookies and give me Band-Aids and whom I would not readily call a fucking whore {in mixed company}) whom said she hadn't been able to get a hold of me for a week. I immediately called Lance, whom was either vacuuming furiously or watching last night's TDS with Jon Stewart because we're fucking old and 10 o'clock really is late with the news we had no phone service. Predictably, the home phone didn't work, hadn't worked since "Ma" blew it up. "What if there had been an emergency?" I shuddered as I sent him a rushed e-mail. Lance with the swiftest haste (or within a day or two) summoned forth the fixers of the emergency phone (see, why did he have to pick "Lance"? Now I feel compelled to write all pseudo-Old English when I introduce him into a story line-damn him-I mean, damneth him) and was promptly told, the problem was the inside wiring, bend over and take it without lube because you opted out of the "inside line insurance". That would have been me. I do not recall being offered said insurance. Never mind the fact that everything was working just peachy before the fuck-ups decided to ruin my Big Mac attack.

I was lamenting loudly and profanely about the corporate jerk offs. I think my exact phrase was, "So, they have you by the short hairs until you pay up?"
"That is the way of nature," my little Buddhist monk chirped bowing stoically.
I thought of all his recent trials, "Yeah, you're right, JC. They fuck you in the drive through. That is the way of nature." I lost all urge for a Big Mac.

3:31pm: I'm not sayin'
Now I'm not sayin' I DID spill a 64 oz cup of hot steaming gas station coffee with cream and sugar on to my government issued keyboard, and I'm NOT saying after 3 weeks the keyboard started smelling funny and the space bar would no longer come up if pressed so I would have to use a screw driver to pop it back up, and I'm not saying after a few days of not being able to IM without rows of empty lines that I decided to take my keyboard apart to "clean" it; and I'm CERTAINLY not saying after the first dozen screws or so I considered that I'd never actually taken anything apart before, and I'm actually not saying I would feel any confidence about re-assembling anything I might have, ya' know, hypothetically taken apart, and I wouldn't call myself particularly astute about such matters, BUT if I, Herbie Hart, who in theory only may have taken a coffee impregnated, government issued, "to be used for the purposes of work" only Throm-dim-bu-lator apart, it’s fixed now.



***Kudos, Dr. Seuss http://www.amazon.com/Ever-Tell-Lucky-Classic-Seuss/dp/0679849939

10:19am: Things you can't bring to school
Sometimes I feel like a prison guard-and I don't mean in the fun "grab your ankles while I snap on this latex glove" way either. Though now that I'm thinking about it...I'll have to get back to you on that. What I mean is that I have been reduced to frisking my children before they embark each day to their respective educational institutions. This is an except from my conversations this week:

Ace: I have a project due Monday on Texas.
Me: Uh-huh
Ace: Can I bring a steak cut to look like Texas?
Me: No.
Ace: (Irritated) Why not?!
Me: I think their are rules about bringing raw meat to school.
Ace: That's a stupid rule.
Me: I couldn't agree with you more.

(70's style flash-back with groovy lights and wavy lines and that ultra-cool porn music)

I'm standing in the hallway. I'm in 5th grade and my teacher is giving me mixed look of horror and morbid curiosity. I see my 10 year old self handing her a crumpled brown paper bag-my science project. With trepidation she peels back the edges of the bag and peers inside. I am awash with pride and self-satisfaction as I am sure no one else has brought this for show-and-tell. She reaches into the bag; I can only imagine she is wishing for gloves right about now. She pulls out a bundle tightly wrapped in Saran wrap. She unrolls layers and layers of glistening plastic until there it is, lying all curled up in her hand: A perfectly dissected fetal pig.

To her credit, she did not do what I think any sane 5th grade teacher would have done and run screaming down the hall. She calmly began wrapping the pig back up, then placed it in the bag and handed it back to me. She didn't ask me how I came by such a thing (my mother was in nursing school-I totally stole her fetal pig. Because, yes, it is what every little girl secretly keeps under her bed along with the beheaded Barbies and legless GI Joes).

She didn't say much of anything, just told me to go back to class and take the pig home after school. You can't really bring raw meat to school, see, it's a really lame rule, I know.

(Scene dissolves and present day comes back into focus)


I’m dropping JC off at pre-K this morning. I look in the back seat and he has a death grip on several objects. We both know what’s coming.

Me: JC, you know you can not take the plastic hanger to school.
JC: Oh, yes, I DO! I take this toy to school.
Me: JC, that is not a toy; it is a hanger and it has pokey edges and you can not take it. You will get into trouble.

(I get a far away look in my eyes-dream sequence music begins-fuzzy edges surround the scene)

“And what do you want to be when you grow up, Susie?” The melodic voice of the pre-K teacher coos as a little blonde pirouettes in her fluffy pink tutu.
“Oh, I want to be a ballerina!”
“And, Johnny, what do you want to be?” She repeats to a helmet bedecked, pudgy little boy.
“I want to be a fireman!”
“Oh, and JC? What about you?”
“Oh, I want to be an abortionist.”

(Reality splashes back)

Yes, there are things you can not take to school-for a complete list, stay tuned…

12:55pm: I have gone
Tulips wrap their petals
protectively
discreetly insulating their vulnerable centers
from the sweet, cool night air

I slip quietly
from your side
slowly, unobtrusively
inconspicuously

pulling my knees to my chin
closing myself to you
So subtly
you are unaware
that I am gone

Pearl seeds
dropping
dispersing, scattering in the wind
translucent, invisible
so tiny, so insignificant individually
they each go unnoticed by you

these singular moments of fleeting opportunity
blowing away from you unobserved
each inconsequential
until in aggregate,
they dissipate
and I have gone.

2:57pm: And they were men
They slip and
slosh
into the marsh
that was once our yard.

The muck
sucks
their shoes from their white, wrinkled toes.
They stand barefooted.

“Justice, wear your boots!”
I call reasonably to him.
“I do not wear boots!
I am a MAN!”

He is four.
The mud oozes between
his small toes.
He stomps angrily splashing, displaying his manhood on cue.

His brother follows suit.
“Aubrey, wear your boots!”
“I do not even have any boots!
I am a MAN!”

You slip your arms around me
lacing your warm fingers across my belly.
“I have boots,” your whisper is bemused
“And I wear them,” as you slip from my side.

I watch you lace up
Army issued, black and worn
And trek into the mire
I know you will teach them how to be good men with dry feet.

3:10pm: Happy Birthday
My oldest is ten today. Exactly ten years ago they placed him warm in my arms-bloody, wiggling, screaming-and I fell so completely in love with him. I fall in love with him again and again.

I took him to pick out his present (an all-terrain bicycle). After his selection which Lance somehow lodged in between the two boys successfully without decapitating either one (though Ace did ride with that peddle awfully close to his right eye), I took him to Barnes and Noble to get some books. Books. Yes, I know-crappy, sneaky mom trick to keep him occupied over the summer with words instead of pixels. Before the car had stopped he exclaimed, "Barnes and Noble?! Could this day get any better?!" He was absolutely sincere. He is ten and he loves books and words and he is covered in purple splotchy bruises from that bike-which leaves him occasionally bloody, screaming and wiggling in my arms.

10:58am: Playing with Fire
It’s late. Very late. I hear the furnace light and the return air duct sucking. I listen to the ting of a few well placed jelly beans tumbling down the aluminum piping. I wonder if they congeal in a molten pool at the furnace base. I don’t sleep any more. I don’t know when the last time sleep found me unencumbered by all the decisions before me. A bubbling, melty mass of blue and pink and yellow speckled sugar slowly burning off, forming and cooling-like the tectonic plates that formed millions or billions of years ago. I imagine a disk of smoothly fired pastel carbon being the base for all the structures I have built. Liquid, solid, liquid solid-again and again and again. Then a floating Icelandic form sailing across fridge waters, its roots not yet connected to the oceanic floor.

I was dreaming of our daughter just before. She was still born. She was the deepest lapis and her face was frozen mid cry. I put my nipple into her mouth and milk streamed out filling her. She began to swallow big gulps. Her toes became pink then her face and shoulders. She sucked greedily at my breast until she was satiated. She squiggled down and I put her in her room. I gave her life, I coaxed life into her. Will I? Will I choose to give her life? I awoke and it is dark. Still dark or dark again.

You are snoring lightly beside me. I press my lips to your back and breathe you in again and again calming myself, memorizing your particular rhythm. I count your breaths. I listen to the furnace shutting off and the house is still once more. The sugar is cooling, forming, hardening, growing into a multi-colored disk never quite solid enough to stand on never quite liquid enough to swim.

1:54pm: There is something wrong with me
It's Christmas morning. Light is just barely tickling the horizon in icy pinks and ripe melon. The door bell rings-it's my ex who has come to watch the boys delight with what "Santa" has brought. My oldest creeps down the stairs in stealth-mode hoping not to be noticed so he can peek under the tree. There isn't as much for him as I wish there was, but there never is. This year he worked very hard to demonstrate he could handle the responsibility of a pet fish or maybe a lizard or MAYBE even a kitten.

I have something wrong with me. I don't like pets despite having been roped into owning them my entire life. I'm missing that particular bit of DNA where I bond with them enough to remember to feed them or let them back inside in the middle of January. Don't get me wrong, I think kittens and puppies are cute-in calendars mostly where they're tumbling in laundry baskets or entangled with yards of yellow yarn-but in reality, I'm lacking in ability and/or interest enough to be a good (fuck it) to be a marginal owner. I told my tear-stricken 9 ("I'm ALMOST 10!") year old I could not care for another living thing in my life. I was overwhelmed enough just buying groceries and paying for internet access (because, yes, damnit, that is a frigging necessity!) much less adding the cost of pet food and supplies and the constant reminding I knew it would take to get my child to remember to care for it (which I wouldn't do, hence causing the inevitable and irreversible psychological trauma of my son allowing his beloved pet to starve to death in a filthy pool of its own excrement). I just don't have that level of stamina.

Enter "Lance" (Why do I allow these people to pick their own pseudonyms? Clearly I have something wrong with me. Every time I write that name it conjures images of Lorenzo Lamas turning his face seriously toward the camera with that smoldering scowl and his over-sized lips while the Falcon Crest theme song denotes his self-importance.) He's a good man and a kind man. He's smoldering in his own right, but not in that pretentious Lance Cumson way. He loves my children. He convinces me a pet would be good for the boys, help them through this transition and teach them about responsibility. I explain to him I am broken, that the part of me able/willing to care for a pet is absent. He tells me it's ok; he has said missing component, and he will help them. I agree. God help the poor creature that is unfortunate enough to be scooped into that cleverly-handled cardboard carrying case and sent home with us.

It's Christmas morning. Lance and ex and I are sitting in silence staring uncomfortably at our respective coffee cups. I hear my oldest (who wishes to be called "Ace"-again, why am I so fucking diplomatic?) pausing on the bottom stair. I call to him and he bounds enthusiastically to the candy cane be-decked tree to scourge for his gifts. He stops dead in his tracks. He looks at me in disbelief. He falls to his knees in front of a veritable amphetamine-induced wet dream for an ADHD rodent. Neon tubes and open-air exercise balls and a projecting Seattle Space Needle visiting center all to scale completely immersed in cotton-candy pink and blue fluff bedding befall his disbelieving eyes. "Ace" searches the cage where he finds two identical soft ginger-colored balls of fur. Two. Identical. Female. Hamsters. One cage. One for him and one for his brother (whom resolutely refuses to bear a pseudonym claiming his name and only his name will be his name. I can hardly fault him for this.) Ace is over-joyed. Vehement promises and assurances abound. Ace wakes his brother. They open the cage together. The anticipation is unbearable. My oldest scoops the sweet little vermin into his gentle cupped hands. The little fucker bites through his index finger, jumps to the ground and scurries under the tree. Lance retrieves her and is also summarily bitten. Uncharacteristically, Ace takes this in stride and claims the hamster "just doesn't know me yet." I, conversely, am considering a short swim in a shallow bowl.

Ace gives unto the hamster a name: she shall be called Internet (I told you it was a frigging necessity). The second shall be called Hamstery (because, yeah, it's a frigging hamster, you got a problem wit dat?). They delight in the frivolity until it's time to go to Grandma's and, no, the vermin can not go.

It's the morning after Christmas. Light has reached the base of our evergreen trees still glistening with ice from the storm at the beginning of the month. Lance is still asleep, breathing lightly and warm to my touch. He smells like early morning too. I snuggle in enjoying these few moments before the noise interrupts this sweet pleasure. Predictably it comes. Fast thuds followed by slower, less concise thuds pound the creaky hundred year old steps. I prop up on one elbow and half open my eyes as Lance stirs reluctantly behind me. Tears stream down Ace's face. This can't be good.
"Mommy, Hamstery is dead." Comes his hiccupping explanation. Two. Identical. Female. Hamsters. One cage. I wipe his tears with my thumb.
"I'm sorry, honey," I notice his younger brother seems completely nonplussed by this reality. "We'll see if we can't get another one, ok?" Both boys nod in unison. My oldest tries to come to terms with the death of his charge. Lance is up now and goes to retrieve the body. Official coroner style, he brings it to me in a body baggy-zip-locked for freshness.

It's noon the day after Christmas. We're standing in line with our deceased hamster nestled lovingly into Lances deep coat pockets amid keys and shiny nickels and a few sticky Skittles. It's our turn. The clerk’s eyes are as glazed over as Hamstery's are. Lance hands her the little package. She stares blankly at him.
"It's dead," he explains simply.
"Any reason it's dead?" She wipes the primordial goo from her nose dramatically.
"Well, we didn't see the need for an autopsy since it was Christmas and all. So, I'm going to go with its heart stopped beating-natural causes." He nods decisively.
She looks over the body. Inspecting it. Flipping it back and forth like pizza dough in front of my children. I am filled with guilt-I should not be allowed to adopt pets. There is undoubtedly something wrong with me. Flashes of my 7th Christmas and my dead guinea pig, Jessica, lifeless in my small hands ("Santa, why hath thou forsaken me?")fill me with nausea. I pull the children aside to look for a replacement hamster. It's male this time. It has to have its own neon-tubed-feat-of-modern-architecture cage. My youngest gives to him a name: Hamstery II.

It's two days after Christmas. The light has almost erased the shadows from my walls. Lance is snoring loudly. I poke him in the ribs, probably not as gently as I should. I hear a slow imprecise plod down the stairs. I linger a moment longer in the yellow light cast across my warm comforter. My child has a very somber look in his eyes. He brings his hands to my face and opens his tiny fingers to reveal a dead Hamstery II. The cause of death? Well, we told that bitch at Pet Smart it was a mystery-perhaps they should carry healthier stock, but between you and me, I think it was the result of internal bleeding as evidenced by petechial hemorrhaging secondary to tiny little fingers loving it too much.

It's a month after Christmas. Hamstery III, Jr (yes, we had a bad run of luck) is still alive and well. Probably because he's a mean fucker who sinks his teeth into you if you try to touch him. Internet doesn't bite any more which gives me concern for her longevity, but Ace is a protective and good pet owner. Clearly, there's nothing wrong with him or his ability to be both a responsible and loving pet owner. But, he's still not getting a kitten

10:20am: The Procession
New Love

freshly milled lumber
pushed by steady hands through the whirling blade
sap running down
sticking to the downy piles of saw dust at the millwright’s feet
-tongued and grooved-
slipping one length perfectly into the next
laying side by side in tandem
aligned in perfect unison
supporting the other, stronger together
than a single board could be
coarse, opaque, untended by the years yet to be
unworn, new with possibilities

Middle Love

measured and cut
sanded and stained
hammered down with galvanized nails
counter sunk
and polished to a high sheen
padded feet sliding across
in unmitigated joy and uncontrollable screams
tickled bellies and raspberries
roll across the floor where
hot wheels and roller skates
have marred and gouged
but the cedar holds steadfast
it is strong, secure with knowing and time
dividing the burden, sharing the bountiful comfort
of commitment to each other

Seasoned Love

long faded rectangles
bleached by seasons of open curtains
and scuttling white socks have
worn it perfectly smooth
errant splinters
no longer piercing bare feet
it is warped some now, sagging some now
it creaks in the same predictable spots now
but it is fully realized now
it is solid-
the unyielding foundation for everything that came before
and has long since been out grown
and everything that is yet to come
and is deeply anticipated
it has been weathered
and dust has settled into the piney knots,
glitter and postage stamps have slipped through the widening spaces
no secret to each other how much weight has been borne
how many angry words absorbed falling from regretful lips
but so many more sugary crumbs of laughter
and brandy laced kisses
wrinkled feet creaking the floor boards in a syncopated waltz
saw dust still lingering, cushioning
those moments between-
melding the mill’s first cut, the child’s first step and love’s last kiss

9:23pm: It's 8:10.
I can still smell you from where I sit
where you were 10 minutes ago


The kids prattle and
wheeze
scream and yell for me

Silence

Silence

Silence

Unknown to me
except in those short
moments late at night

Breathing
Whispering
giggling

Trying to wake
you
Inconspicuously licking your back

You stir
you roll to me
you wrap your arms around my waist

Breath in my hair
love me
touch me

3:15pm: Informed Consent


I don’t remember saying “yes”
but I did
I must have

I remember screaming yes
and more
and more

I remember tearing
your back
apart that night

My consent
delivered in a
sealed white envelope

Your name
embossed on the front
in thick, black letters

I don’t remember saying “yes”
but I did
I must have

Situations
Circumstances
Beyond our control

I don’t remember you saying “yes”
but you did
you must have

Perpetual
Significant
Whispered adoringly

That night
last night
every night

Yes
Yes
Yes

2:40pm: Life on the Light Side
"Ugh, Fire Good: Gender and the advent of fire"

Me: Gather twigs, leaves and bark for kindling, carefully nurturing the flame until the embers catch bigger logs, um, eventually. Sit on my plastic chair stoking and relaxing while the fire grows gradually.

Him: Pour gasoline on said fire until the flames literally leap onto the plastic chairs and light the nearby dry grass. Stomp madly putting out said flames. Enjoy the scent of singed arm hair clinging in the chilly night air and beam with pride on the, eh-hem, "size" of the blaze.



Me: One hotdog per stick, turned continuously so it browns and heats evenly. Deeply satisfied with the over all aesthetic of the dog. Everyone else: hungry and salivating like wild dogs.

Him: Six hotdogs on one stick set on fire until they're black so everyone can eat at the same time.



Me: One marshmallow per stick turned so it browns and heats evenly, leaving a perfectly crisp exterior and melted interior, gently placed on chocolate one at a time and sandwiched with graham crackers.

Him: Half a bag of marshmallows on one stick, again, set afire, scraped onto a plate and passed to everyone can efficiently assemble their own.



Him: One sleepy child in his arms and another beside him listening with rapt attention as he reads, squinting in the dim fire light, ghost stories that aren't "too" scary.
Me: Completely, undeniably and blissfully in love.

2:55pm: "The Inner Sanctum"
Let me preface this with the following truth: Any man who holds my hair while I vomit has a free pass for at least one more date-the location of his choice. If he not only holds my hair while I puke (usually because for some reason I believe I have the body fat and tolerance level of a guy-it's untrue of course, but I still cling to that belief up to the point I wretch), but then (a) never mentions any of the inappropriate disclosures I made AND makes me coffee AND breakfast in bed-well, baby, really, the sky's the limit. I only bring that up to temper the rest of my entry-he rocks, he does, but what follows is not a full picture (the following is factious and does not represent any actual persons living or dead, nor is it intended to characterize any truth, stereotype or observation about any gender, person or event-how's that? It's a blatant lie, of course, but we'll go with it for the sake of litigious barter).

I am excited. I always found sociology and anthropology so fascinating and now I have been given the rare opportunity to study both simultaneously. We walk in. Stale beer and smoldering cigarette butts assault my olfactory nerve instantly as my optical more or less successfully navigates to a black vinyl barstool. I set my purse on the black laminate bar and receive a slightly disapproving look-boundaries, this is not "womyn" space. I am a visitor, an observer, I remind myself, and I politely put the bag on the sticky floor. Italian calf leather, hand tanned and pounded into a soft beige container for my tools-lipstick, powder, cash and credit card (just in case)-uneasily sits below me sit as I slide off the stool. The previous occupants clearly lacked posture as I scoot up again, slide off again, physically clutch the bar and hunker-down with my elbows buried into my sides for balance. My date gets up leaving his stool unattended. I spy around. No one seems to notice or care as I-yes, you totally know I did-steal his chair and replace it with my defective one. Much better. He doesn't seem to notice. The room is divided. Not quite literally, but the lines are drawn. We are the C-tribe. Our colors are orange and navy. They are the yellow and black tribe with a primary colored triad of starbursts on their headdress. The battle lines have been established and marked in urine-few dare cross, at least yet; it's still early, but our tribe was late. We don't get the same benefits. They have 2 big screens, and we only have 2 small screens located over the bar. He's talking to the bartender about the inequity of it all. I sympathize, life really isn't fair. I know, baby, I know.

I order a beer. I intuit this is the right this to do. Another error-FLAG! Pitchers. Damn! Ok, easy mistake, I reassure myself and try to recover. My fraudulence has been noticed however. I flip my hair and bat my eyes. Ok, overlooked for now. I look around as the bar begins to fill. Men. I am one of 3 women in the bar besides the obviously busty girls who bring forth the PITCHERS and smile sweetly and bend over just as obviously. What are they, 16? I scoff and carefully watch my date for a reaction-he scores!-no reaction. He kisses me (dreamy sigh) risky and secure. Hmm. I watch. Kick off. He leans in periodically to explain what's going on as he complains again about our viewing options. Several of the patrons begin to mumble about loyalty and how many different tribal-jerseys hang in the opposing tribe’s closets. I smile bemused. Attack the character of the opposition-question their patriotism, their faith, their God. They begin making overtures about finding a different establishment where "true" and "visionary" proprietors might appreciate the sacrifice our tribe are making with their pitchers. The barkeep quickly appeases the dissatisfied by turning one more screen (another small one) to the C tribe's ritual game and increases the volume. They are satisfied enough. More pitchers come. Then food is ordered. This is man-food. It must not only be consumed with the fingers, but is covered in a sanguine reminiscent liquid and eaten in one bite off the bones off a canonized fowl. We worship the bones. There is grunting as the level of heat one can tolerate is the chalice as much as the amount of beer one can consume. I can actually stand a higher degree. This is noted neutrally. Damn! I have got to learn these rules! Ok, it's our tribe's turn to be pummeled as they run with an oblong shaped ball in their crotches (phallic, much?). Suddenly there is an outburst across the room. I don't know what's happened, but the opposing tribe begins lightly taunting our tribe; we do not appreciate it, but we apparently don't have anything "down". This is undesirable, so we must ignore the humiliation-for now. I note it, having things down is better. Have the ball in our groin is better. I look at the clock and the beer and deep fried foods begin to churn. The smoke encircles my head and I begin the feel glassy. I watch him. I smile to myself again. I have never been privy to the inner-sanctum before. I suck his ear briefly, discreetly and thank him. I am learning so much. I watch how they interact together during commercials. How primarily they seem to delve and bob on the surface-but upon closer inspection they don't. It's sophisticated. It's how they generate warmth for each other and express camaraderie. Of course they can't directly show it, but it's there just the same. A common cause. A common language. A common purpose. A common enemy.

The dam breaks. It's late in the game and our tribe needs more things down. He is tense. I rub his shoulders. The taunting increases. Suddenly the line is crossed-brazenly a P/S tribe member accosts us. He begins bragging loudly on the performance of his tribe. The absurdity makes me giggle: this middle-aged, drunkard is assuming credit for the good fortune of his tribe by mere virtue of the fact he cheers them on. I bite my cheek until I feel a swollen lump-giggling in not tribe-like and I shouldn't do it. I turn away and try to contain myself. The fermented beverages and deep fried foods bubble in my gut. I look at him. He's laughing too. Suddenly one of our tribe picks up the gauntlet. Statistics begin flying about-the number of rings is thrown into the mix (jewelry? Yeah-something worth fighting over, finally.) He is more amused and kisses me. I relax. I understand this. It's not about the game; it's about the tribe and keeping the tribe proud. It's about me and him and how we fit in this tribe, if we do. I am accepted. I feel appreciation as much as amusement. I leave with a sense of wonder-our tribe accomplished putting more things down. We won. I watched as men with a single ring call their own dwellings. I think to myself, no woman should ever deny him of this. I know we bitch about it-well, I don't care enough to bitch yet, really-but I think those that do have missed the point entirely. This ritual may be silly and trite and pointless at first glance, but it is actually something else. It is unifying and touching and I think needed. It is a way to belong and to be close. Anything that promotes unity among the tribe, promotes health among the tribe. This translates into men with rings loving enough to call home and 16-year-old-big-busted-barmaids leaving with enough cash to support them. I was allowed to be in the inner sanctum, the holiest of holies, and I left with the apple.

11:17am: Polyamorous Inclinations
I had the most remarkable conversation with my oldest son last night. We went for a walk because the weather was perfect. He was holding my hand and swinging my arm (I know these moments now have a limited shelf-life-ten being the age most boys start retreating from simple moments like these with their mothers). He was rambling about his day when he stopped suddenly and blurted out almost involuntarily, "I have a crush on the new girl" and ran ahead of me. I smiled to myself and watched him come to terms with his disclosure. I was silent as he took my hand and again began swinging my arm. "I think she has a crush on me too! But, my other best friend 'Andy' likes her too." Ah. Competition. Grrr, break out the dueling pistols and the broad swords!
"Well, you could ask her first?" I countered reasonably, knowing how guys can just jerk around until the girl loses interest (eh-hem, personal experience at work).
"What?!" He looked absolutely appalled. "I can't ask her to be my girlfriend!"
"Why not?" I pressed expecting to get some form of insecurity on his part.
"I don't even know her favorite color! I mean, really, I should at least know that. How else will I know what color to use for the card?"
"The card?"
"Yeah, the one I'll give her asking her to be my girlfriend?"

Oh. Forth grade, I forgot-"If you like me check this box"-not an uncomfortable pause on the phone, "So, would you like to meet for drinks?"

"Yes, it's important to know someone's favorite color," I mused aloud realizing silently I had no idea the color preferences of any of my recent lovers. This continues to distress me. I mean, should I contact them all and ask? I don't intend on giving them any cards, though...
"When I was in forth grade I had my very first real crush too." I said. "His name was Paul [and, Paul, if you're reading this, thirty years is a long time to wait for that return call]. He had red hair like Mommy and lots of freckles like Mommy and he held my hand during Friday afternoon movies in the auditorium. And he would smile at me," I smiled at my son as he became animated and interjected.
"Oh, yes, 'Ashley' smiles ALL the time at me. She just smiles and smiles and I really like it when she smiles," and he sighed deeply. I squeezed his hand. Yes, I know. There is that smile. That particular smile.
"Well, you know, you could go ahead and ask her what her favorite color is tomorrow?"
"Yeah, but what about 'Andy'. I mean, I KNOW she likes me for a crush, not him," confidence is very ssss-eh-xy. I laughed.
"Really?"
"Uh-huh, but he IS one of my best friends," guy's motto-never let a chick come between your friendships-honorable.
"Well, there's no rule that says she can't have both of you for her boyfriend." I point out pragmatically. I am nothing if not eminently practical.
"There's not?!" Incredulous.
"Nope."

But, maybe there should be I think back on dating six men during the same two week period (it was actually like six dates during the same 72 hour period-that was insane-fun, but insane). Maybe there should be a limit or at least a guideline cap. Maybe I should have known each of their favorite colors. I'm sure they didn't know mine-or probably care to. Maybe I'm part of that vicious cycle of objectification I complain so vocally about? Or maybe I allowed myself to be. Or maybe I felt too afraid to risk very much and let it be ok not to know his favorite color and for him not to know mine. I let it be ok not to be known. Then it occurred to me, what if he was unsure of his favorite color though? Like in Quest for the Holy Grail and the three questions at the bridge, "What is your name? What is your quest? What is your favorite color?" Red, no, blue-AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Rationalizations abound. I mean, I don't want to kill anyone with the question, right? I can make it ok to be safe and protected in an emotionally anonymous cocoon. Well, I can't really, but I can try. I can mitigate my feelings, keep them in a mason jar tightly sealed under the bed-can't I?

"Well, I don't want her to have any other boyfriend but me," he replied resolutely, thoughtfully.
"Then you should probably ask her first, sweetie," I replied non-judgmentally.
"Hmm, no, I think she should be sure she wants me for her boyfriend." He nods decisively.

And I know she won't be getting that pink card from my son any time soon. He has a skill I lack, self-edification. He will wait until her smile completely beguiles him, until she is wholly known to him and he will risk losing her in the process in order to secure his feelings and hers. How in the world did I impart this level of insight to my child? I squeeze his hand again and think about Paul, my red-headed first boyfriend. I remember asking him if he "liked-liked" me. I remember taking his hand the first time. I remember him defending me to his other nine year old friends. I remember butterflies in my stomach. I remember the end of the year party and knowing somehow everything would be different in fifth grade. Paul would have a different teacher; I would rarely see him. I don't know what his favorite color was-maybe if I had we would have been able to sustain the separation better?

9:49pm: The Resurrection
For those who may be unaware, "wooly" worms can not swim. We invariably have to test this theory on an annual basis however. The predictable tragic result documented, the death certificates issued, statistics of how long said worm survived tallied and published in various periodicals; and then we have the harder task of grieving the loss. Tonight, even after repeated warnings to my youngest, I found another wooly worm floating in a murky Petri disk. I sighed deeply and lectured him on the value of life, how we already know water drowns worms, how we tested this axiom YESTERDAY with the same result. I know he has not yet master permanence, but I was annoyed and I was imperfect. I took his little wet hand and placed the dead worm in it and curled his fingers around the lifeless, soggy body. I looked into his big, teary brown eyes and kissed his furrowed brow. I led him to the shed to find a hand trowel to bury the victim. I loved my son and he allowed me to console him. We lifted some rocks, moved the earth beneath, said words appropriate to honor an unintended causality in the quest to further scientific research and my little one opened his fingers. He began to scream. The wooly worm had curled its body into the ouroboros, proverbial life out of death, eternal circle of life. Lazarus, the wooly worm, brought back from the dead by my son's warm fingers and salty tears.

Instead of a burial, we had a celebration of life. I considered the real life metaphor that I've had my own awakening of the same sort-I am the ouroboros-cyclic, renewed, revived-in much the same manner. I have been touched, my life has been touched and I have been resurrected to repeat and to cycle once more. Tears, grief, loss, death, life, joy, birth and again and again. The wooly worms will find their way into the earth to hibernate soon or into the belly of a hungry bird, or, God forbid, under a blanket of dirty water from my garden hose, but I will not. I will never allow myself to sleep through life ever again. I have found life out of death, joy out of sorrow, release from self-imprisonment. I am the ouroboros.

9:48pm: New Backpack
I got home this am and took a nap (lucky me). I awoke to Justice sorting through my clothes. He selected one of my bras, hooked it on backwards and began to leave. I asked him if he understood bras were for women (and boobs-because I don't freak if they wear my stuff unless they're destructive with it-seems a phase they both went through and I just let them I guess) and he told me actually it was a backpack. I am SO letting him take his new "backpack" to pre-K...do you think I'll get a note?

8:52am: Things I May Have Neglected to Mention
This morning I allowed my children to have Lucky Charms. (What? It’s part of a balanced breakfast if served with toast, juice, fruit and a protein-like milk for example. So, the cereal was part of an imbalanced breakfast which mainly included just the cereal and milk.) I was still fumbling for coffee filters when my oldest son started offering me bites:

“Here, Mommy, this one is for you, and this one and this one…all the hearts because I love you so much.”

My youngest son, who is four and never to be out charmed by his brother, followed suit offering me bites.

“Are these hearts because you love me too?” I asked prompting him into dialogue.

“No, because they are pink,” ah, because they are pink. I smiled at him and ruffled his sandy blonde hair. “And pink is your favorite color, Mommy.” And that it is.

I’ve been thinking about them bringing me dandelions this summer for me to wish upon and wondering what their wishes were. Mine, of course are always the same, “Please be happy, boys, please find happiness and always be this loving,” as I blow hundreds of gauzy tiny seeds into the air. I’ve been thinking about hand-made birthday cards and things cut from construction paper with tiny scissors and gloppy paste. I’ve been wondering what type of men they will be, will the world get to them and eviscerate these beautiful, whole children into emotional cripples? I hope not, I wish not, I think not. Will they go through life knowing there is more, feeling there is more but being too afraid to allow themselves to have more? Or will they be among the very few that have a rich interpersonal life because they were never told “pink is for girls” or “hearts are for girls” or “love is girls”? At least they were not told that by me. Such an inadequate breakfast turned into such a perfect start to my day. Now, predictably, they’re screaming in the other room; battering each other with match box cars and yo-yos, but for one minute I got to see my wish for them be true.

9:38pm: Pink Haze
Silver streamers drizzle down
-Tinsel falling-
Through
Pink hued haze
Imbued
Dazed
Incapable of constant
Linear transitions

Scattered torrential storms
Platitudes of persuasion
Jagged
Zigzag flashes
Soak into my skin
Wet shivers
Chase down my neck
Racing to meet
My ends

Lips quiver
Lightening slivers
Electrify our words
With promise and
Fantasy
and splashes of pink
Swell into deep rivers
Crimson passions
Ignite and smolder and
Rise beyond their beds
Flooding the fields
Saturating me wholly
With silver streams
Trickling over my body.

10:28am: And thus and so forth and so on
Life teaches us to let go-sometimes voluntarily, sometimes not so voluntarily-but inevitably and surely and with absolute certainty. Life does not give us options or respond to bargaining; it will not negotiate with us-it simply says, "This is over, you must let go now" and we find away to accommodate life and we find the strength to let that happen. We release our reluctant grips and we let go. The amazing thing is some times, not always, but some times we find the things life gives us when we have finally decided to let go bring us more joy than the thing we had to release. We learn the value of opening and closing our hearts, opening our tightly clasped fingers and closing them loosely around the next wonderful thing which we will probably have to learn to let go of as well.

3:27pm: Don't Swim Alone
My son, nine, and his "best friend" (female) had the following conversation:

Him: I like you. (frowns and thinks) Not like a sister though. I have a funny feeling in my stomach.
Her: I know! I like you too! (smiling broadly) Are you sick?
Him: No... (as he pushed her into the pool)

This typifies, I think every romantic encounter I have ever experienced, witnessed or dialoged about-I think it must be linked to the Y-chromosome. He finally figures out he "likes-likes" her (a fact I have known for over a year), she let's him know she feels the same-and-BAM!-into the pool she goes. Distance or near drowning. Choppy waters to navigate indeed.

Distance and closeness-we learn so young to push away those that make us feel any uncertainty, don't we? My brave son, though, he jumped in after her. Then they got out of the water, held hands and jumped together. That's all I want-hold my hand, close your eyes, count to three-and jump in with me-sink or swim. Of course I will have to watch them much more carefully now-swimming together has it's risks of course. I'll be able to help him in a way I wasn't-tell him things he should know about how to float and sustain. Teach him how to breathe and relax and let the water bring you close naturally and how to let it take you away from each other too. Hard thing to ascertain. First loves, forth loves, lovers-I am an excellent swimmer, just remembering how to float and breathe, that's the challenge.

5:23pm: Dairy Queen Parking Lot
He kisses me
In the Dairy Queen parking lot
Hot asphalt sticky
Pulling away
Under my shoes.

Not a hesitant kiss
No uncertainty
or reluctance
My lips
Meeting his lips
Intentionally
Deliberately.

His mouth
Like concord grapes
and citrus
Firm
Hard against mine
Pulling me inside of him
Wanting him inside of me

The tip of his tongue
touches my bottom lip
High voltage races through
My stomach
My knees
His arms around my waist
Supporting me
Holding me
Touching me
Wanting me.

He kisses me
Hot, sticky
Lips parting lips
Meeting lips
Meeting him.
The taste of mouth remains
On mine even now.

9:11am: Ode to the Rogue Potato
I am responsible. The guilt haunts me. I could have prevented this tragedy. My apathy, my indecision, my reluctance to do the right thing instead of the comfortable thing. I am culpable. I did not commit the heinous act, but my contributory negligence does not exculpate me. I found Rogue again. I went looking for him thinking I hadn't done enough, thinking it is my responsibility to help a vegetable in need. After all, what kind of socialist would I be if I did not do absolutely everything within my power to lend another a hand up out of despair? A very poor one in deed. I have failed my ideology. NO! It can not be my fault. It is George W's fault for limiting access for the indigent into a better way of life. It is the fault of the system. It is the agency, the bureaucrat, the bus driver-it couldn't be me, I am a good person, I did all I could. But did I? Did I really? I left him there. I abandon him. My God, I stepped over him and went into my nice air conditioned office with my iced latte from Star Bucks and barely gave him another thought.

I found him tonight. Crushed. Left for dead. Hit and run. No chalk outline. No cops. No witnesses. Just his mangled, unrecognizable form baking in the descending light-his innards spewed across the soft, black tar. I lowered my head and did what I do when I don't know what to do-I stepped over him and got into my nice air conditioned car and drove the my beautiful white, two-story house in the country and kissed my children and pondered the cruelty in the world and my own contribution to it. I didn't do enough.