Subtle Glow

I’ve seen the writing prompts where you’re supposed to go back in time and talk to your younger self and share one piece of advice that will be important for you to know between the Then-you and the Now-you.

Not to pick on Mel, but this entry made me chuckle as thought back to when I made the switch, and I realized exactly what I would tell my then-self:

Do not wait until you have finished your degree (for which you took classes online - at night after you put the baby to bed) to go ahead and allow yourself the splurge of getting cable internet.

Listen to me:  Get that shit NOW - because it isn’t worth the cursing violently at 2am when you’re dial-up has disconnected for the fifth time while you try (again) to upload your assignments for the week.  It’s not worth the flinging heavy objects off the desk and stifling the roars of frustration before you finally decide “Fuck this” and go ahead and open the wine - Zoloft be damned.  Seriously.

Some people think about their time in college and kegger parties and frat boys come to mind.  For me, it was that damned dial-up internet I stuck with for far too long.  Ok, I would by lying if I said I didn’t go to any parties.  There were plenty of keg parties, but they were more often attended by the local surfers (which incidentally were also kind of like the jocks, considering they were on the surfing team) because we didn’t have full-fledged frat boys in high school.

The weekends are never long enough, even when they are like last weekend and proudly carry the title of “long weekend.” This title is misleading, especially if you are like me and planning a move NEXT weekend (which I predict will be a notably SHORT weekend).

I spent the last two days packing. Packing, sorting, and cleaning. Thrilling, I tell you. Then, I spent the entire night last night in a very light, fitful sleep, waking every hour or two wondering if I had even fallen asleep yet. I think I dreamed about packing, sorting, and cleaning. Either that or I just thought about it a lot while I was supposed to be sleeping.

However, that is all the whining I have for right now about it. Because seriously, I get it already. I’m sure you do, too. I am moving next weekend and it sucks - all the packing, sorting, and cleaning totally sucks. Moving on.

Other things happened this weekend, too. Besides all the stuff I already mentioned. Stuff like: My son finally asked me where babies come from!

I’ve wondered a few times over the last few years when this question would come up. I’ve never minced words or tried to hide anything from him as far as his curiosity about his body and the difference between boys and girls, etc. He’s had questions in the past, and I’ve always made a point to be clinical, but honest as I answer him. Up until Saturday, he had never asked THE question. Which, you know, I figured would have come up by now. So, to say the least I was pretty darn excited that he finally asked.

Of course, I have to add in here that the way he went about asking was so stinking cute. It was along the lines of, “Mom, when a woman and a man get married, and they kiss at the wedding, do their molecules mix together - and that’s how a woman gets to have a baby?”

Close, sweetheart, but not quite.

Most of you reading this already KNOW the answer so I won’t go into it, and if you don’t know the answer then I don’t know if I’m really the one to be telling you. So, anyway, we had this whole conversation as we’re driving up the freeway - on our way to the OTHER cool stuff that also happened this weekend.

I met and had lunch and did some window shopping with a woman that I used to be very good friends with, back when I was around 14 or so. I spent at least one night every weekend at her house, and tried to spend both nights there if I could convince my mom to let me. That was the beginning of my wild and crazy youth. I had skirted the fringe of some only slightly risky behavior up to that point in life, but the opportunity hadn’t really made itself available until right around then.

Looking back now at some of the situations her and I got into together makes me cringe and shake my head. We were so lucky. And so dumb. But so lucky. Now, as a mother to my own child, I think about some of the what-ifs that her and I never contemplated then. If only our mothers knew what we were up to.

Eventually they figured it out and eventually her family moved out of state and she went with them. I don’t remember much about the time right after she left. I don’t remember feeling sad or friendless and alone - but I don’t remember having another close friend like her until I was in sophmore year of high school. It’s like a big blank for me - I know there were months between when she left and when I met and became friends with the group of girls that I stuck with through the rest of high school.

Her and I lost contact pretty much as soon as she moved. I’ve thought about her over the years and wondered what she was up to, but wasn’t sure how to go about trying to find her. That was over 15 years ago.

Enter MySpace.

I set up a myspace page a few months back, at the urging of one of my girlfriends, who had a page that she mostly used to keep in touch with her brother while he was away at school.

Anyway, I did the basic setup and then pretty much left it at that. I don’t even know how long it was up - maybe a couple weeks - before I got a message from someone I didn’t recognize. At. All. I thought - ok, random! and didn’t bother to think about it much after that.

A few days later - I got a message from someone else that I didn’t know. After staring at it for a bit I realized who it was, and then realized the first message was from her sister.

Last Saturday, both of them were in town and we all got together for lunch. It was crazy. Crazy in a good way. Surreal. We sat there at lunch eating and talking and then staring as we realized - holy crap! 15 years! I told her it didn’t feel like that - she looks the same as I remember her.

It’s not that I expected the worst but having gone to my 10-year reunion a few years back, you realize that some people weren’t just messing around with the drugs, alchohol, and partying. I left that behind years ago - kind of chalked it up to experimentation, or recreational use at best (at least the drugs and heavy partying anyway). In the case of alchohol, I just learned to be social with it.  To enjoy it in much smaller, more appropriate quantities.  But, the truth is that you never know who is going to do the same and who is going to make your old ways a whole way of life.

I think we were both a little relieved to know that neither of us made it a way of life. It’s one of the things that made it so great to get a chance to reconnect with her, to meet her daughter, to see her sister (all grown up!), after all this time. They now live a few hours away, and I hope to plan a trip out to see them soon.

As if all THAT wasn’t enough, on our way home from our afternoon excursion, I stopped off at Best Buy and bought myself a brand new refrigerator for my new place.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go back fixating on all that still needs to be done between now and the end of this week. I hope this entry is long enough to hold you over, because I don’t know if I’ll have time to think (oh, wait - yes I will because I apparently do that instead of sleeping now) let alone put together a coherent entry.

A recent conversation touched on something (or someone) that I don’t often talk about or really deal with in a concrete way.

My father was physically abusive to me growing up. He was also abusive to my mother, my brother, his second wife, and her three children.

He was also verbally abusive. I remember being told I was fat (I was 5′4″ and less than 120 lbs until I was in my 20’s), that I had a big fat ass, that I had a big nose, that my voice was too nasal, etc. I remember thinking then how uncomfortable it was and how hurtful it felt when he said those things, but “at least he’s not hitting me.”

There were nights when the beatings would happen, after everyone else had gone to bed. They all heard him yelling, the slamming, my crying, my screams of fear and pain. They heard him, my stepmother included. There were nights that none of them left their beds as it happened. They laid there, fear pinning them in place as their hearts raced and they hoped he didn’t come in for them next. We all did it. We all had our turn, over and over again.

(Read on …)

There are much worse things you can do when you hear that word.

The other night Kiddo was off doing something and I heard him say in frustration, “Ugh! This won’t stop itching!”

I glanced over to see him scratching the back of his head.

I think my heart stopped for a split second, I threw up a little, and I can’t imagine how wide my eyes got, as I asked, “It itches… on your HEAD?!”

Oh please. Oh please no. Oh please oh please oh please. Where has he been sitting? How will I get that in the washer, with bleach? I have to buy all new furniture and re-carpet this place and oh please no. Oh no no no no no.

After careful scrutiny I felt satisfied that whatever it was causing the itching was NOT lice.

This won’t seem related at first, but the first time I got high I was about 7. My mom got me high, actually. On gasoline fumes.

I’m sure she didn’t *mean* to get us high (yes my brother - I think around 4 or 5 at the time) was there too. And got to have all the fun, too.

The thing is, I guess someone from the school, or the day care - I don’t remember which - sent a note home that someone in the class/day care had a case of lice and they were doing their duty to inform the parents.

I had long long blonde hair - my mother never let me cut it. It was long and blonde and THICK and hung like heavy drapery more than halfway down my back.

I don’t know what went through her mind, but she saw the note and disappeared into the garage.

She returned with a container of gasoline. Which she then mixed with softsoap. And then washed our hair.

I remember leaning over the tub and her warning me to keep my eyes shut very tight so none of it would get in them. I felt funny at first, and then with my eyes squeezed shut I could sort of “see” little shapes dancing around. At one point there was a green background, with a little yellow ‘X’ that ran in a straight line back and forth. It was hard to breathe, all I could smell were fumes. I don’t know how long it took for her to wash and rinse and then re-wash with regular shampoo. But I remember calling her name at one point, “Mom?” and her voice came back from very far away.

My brother, I remember, stood in the bathtub and tipped his head back as far as he possibly could. He screamed in terror the entire time.

My mother told us we would have the cleanest heads in the entire school.

I knew she did this because she knew she couldn’t afford the special shampoo to treat the lice.  Even knowing that, I still can’t help but think - “What the…?” We didn’t even have lice, actually. Just the note, that someone *else* had them.

When I was about 8 or 9 years old, my little friends and I would comb through the clover patches growing in our yards looking for four leaf clovers.

While we searched for four-leaf clovers we would make little crowns from the flowers.  They would have these really long stems.  We used to pick the flowers and wind the stems around each other, until we had a chain long enough to fasten together and wear on our heads.

My friend Jennifer was always the one to find the lucky clovers - she would find so many she could string them together into bracelets. In some ways I think she needed the luck more than the rest of us, because looking back now I think she might have been undiagnosed with a bi-polar disorder.  Maybe I’m wrong, but she definitely needed some help of some kind, at least for depression.

I wonder how many other young children - as young as we were at 8 and 9 - on up into their pre-teen and teen years are suffering from some sort of depression or other mental illness.  Undiagnosed and untreated - what does their future hold for them?

For lack of excitement or willingness to write about anything current, I figured some filler from the past might be an idea.

By the time I was 6, my parents had divorced. My younger brother and I lived with our mother in a small house in Lake Jackson. Every weekend, she would pack up a cooler and we headed the 20 minutes to Brian Beach - the more ‘family-friendly’ beach in comparison to the rowdy Surfside beach.

I loved to swim out past the breakers and just float around. I loved the peace and quiet and the calm of the Gulf. My brother, on the other hand, spent hours on the shore playing and digging and building in the sand. Occasionally I would spend some time doing the same, or digging up little clams as they frantically burrowed their way down as each wave receded.

Rarely did we bring any of my friends or my brother’s friends with us. The one time we did bring my best friend, she was sunburned so badly she had raised blisters, as thick and wide as a finger stretching all along her back where the bottom of her bathing suit had rubbed away the sunscreen. She never went with us to the beach again - I don’t know if that was her mother’s discretion or mine.

We had bottles and bottles of that sunscreen. I remember the brand was Johnson & Johnson. Every Saturday morning was the ritual of breakfast, bathing suits, and liberal application of sunscreen. I can still smell it. My mother would call us over a few times while at the beach to repeat the process, rubbing the lotion into our sandy skin.

Later, after my mother met her boyfriend, who years later became my stepfather, the four of us would go to the beach. He drove a red Jeep. It had four wheel drive and a wench on the front. There were only two seats - driver and passenger - so my brother and I would sit on the wheel wells and hang on to the roll bars. This was Texas, that was somewhere in the early 80’s. You could drive along the beaches in Texas, I don’t know if you still can. But we would drive along the beach and look for cars that had gotten stuck in the sand. He would tow them out of the sand, in exchange for beers. Eventually he had a seat made and installed in the back of the jeep, complete with two seatbelts. All I knew was that it was a much more comfortable ride than a folded beach towel draped over the red metal wheel well.

We would go four-wheeling on the sand dunes on the beach. It was exciting and terrifying all at the same time. My brother was fine if the boyfriend was driving; he was all worries and shouts of ‘Slow down!’ if my mom ever got behind the wheel. I can still hear the squeak of the styrofoam cooler and the slosh of melted ice as we rumbled across the dunes.

We spent the better portion of every Saturday, sometimes Sundays at that beach. We would come home and flop exhausted and sandy on our beds as we all took turns bathing. That was the best feeling after coming home. Getting all the sand off and changing into clean, dry clothes, and the faint warmth of my skin once in awhile from a slight sunburn. I have pictures of my brother, sprawled and passed out, with his little shorts and flip-flops still dangling from his feet off the side of the bed.

When I think of the time I spent living in Texas, this is mostly what I remember. Mingled between trips to the beach I learned to ride a bike on two wheels, threw up on the front porch of our house, lived through my parents brief but tumultuous marriage and divorce, got in trouble in my first grade class for talking too much and forgetting my homework, slept on a sheet-covered couch while I was home from school with the chicken pox, swinging on the swingset in the backyard, getting my ears pierced, and having my mother tell me as she applied her nail tips with superglue that my brother and I would be going to live with my father. She calmly cried and filed her nails as the world as I knew it came crashing down around me. I don’t remember the beach after that conversation. I don’t remember feeling happy for a very long time after that. Not for years. But, for a time, my life there in that house was very sweet, and simple and innocent, and I’m glad I can still remember that now.

I was going to do a year in review - an idea I wanted to steal from Joelle, but once I got to April I realized I don’t have the patience for it. I did bring over many of my archives from my old site, so now this one is pretty much up to date.

I just thought it worth mentioning that 2005 really sucked ass for a lot of people. I don’t know, but I get the general sense that everyone is pretty much ready to bid 2005 goodbye, with a middle-finger salute and an “Up Yours” as it makes it’s way out.

Except for me.

2005 was a banner year for me. It was awesome. I moved to really sweet little condo, and even though I’m still renting as opposed to owning, the rent was way less for a much nicer place. That helped get my finances on track, with the help of a friend, and with no help whatsoever from my cunt of a former boss.

I got a new (way better) job, doing work I really like doing. The job came with more pay, so the finances smoothed out even more. With the pay raise I was finally able to trade in my truck for a brand new 2006 corolla.

On top of all that - I have a special someone in my life, and our 1 year anniversary was New Year’s Eve.

So to recap the highlights: New Guy, New Place, New Job, MO Money, New Car. I have no complaints.

I had a really good feeling about 2005 coming in to it. I wish I could say the same for 2006, but for reasons I don’t know yet - I just can’t.

I also don’t bother making resolutions at New Year. I figure if it’s good enough to make a resolution about, well why not start right away? I do have goals (and a couple wishes) for this year:

1. Stay on track with my weight loss - keep going to the gym. I want some seriously VISIBLE results by my birthday in March.
2. Start saving for the trip to Italy next year.
3. For the wishlist: New boobs, and a new nose.
4. Buy a condo this summer, instead of moving into yet another rental.
5. Keep writing on a regular basis.
6. Knit a Sweater. Odd goal, I know - but I’d really like to move beyond the basic circle/square/rectangle knitting I’ve done so far.
7. Buy myself something nice for my birthday.
8. Keep the kiddo involved in sports/activities.
9. Get regular checkups (dentist, eye doc, etc) for me and kiddo.
10. Prioritize! Like, for instance, move #3 down to like #10 on the list. Or something.

Our first family home.
I still know the address.
We lived on Magnolia Street.
Two blocks from my Elementary School.

I walked to school.
I pictured that neighborhood as I read “Ramona Quimby, Age 8″ and her house was my house, only hers had stairs I think.

There was a huge church that occupied the block between my house and my school.
The church parking lot is where I learned to ride my bike without training wheels.

On the other side of the church parking lot, was my best friend.
We met the first day of kindergarten.
I decided it was a good idea to go to her house after school, without asking permission first or anything.
My mom thought that was a terrible idea.

We used to fly kites in that parking lot.
We rode our bikes and skated on our skates there.

I wasn’t allowed to go beyond the two-block radius by myself.

We lived about three or four blocks from Sycamore Street.
My dad promised me he would take me for a ride down Sycamore Street.
I rode on the back of his bicycle, in one of those bike seats.
I smiled and waved to the people raking their lawns and sweeping their sidewalks.
I don’t know why, but I always loved Sycamore Street.

I was convinced that El Caminos were really called Pontiacs, because one time a boy in my neighborhood told me so.
Even my dad couldn’t convince me otherwise; I stuck to my opinion and continued calling them Pontiacs - much to his irritation.

We lived a few blocks from the community pool.
I hated the kiddie pool out front.
It always seemed slimy and too green and gross.
The big pool had two diving boards, one regular and one high dive.
I jumped off the regular diving board once, on my own.
I nearly drowned.
The lifeguard was too busy rubbing lotion on herself/flirting with boys.
Someone else jumped in and helped me out.

I sometimes wonder if that old house is still there, with the concrete blocks still underneath to keep it off the ground. I guess there wasn’t really a foundation. All of the houses were like that. Sometimes you could hear raccoons or other varmits under the house, scratching under the tub. The last time anyone in my family saw it, it was broken down, and sinking at the bottom.

I always imagine the same type of family lives there. Like we were when we lived there. A young couple, with young children, with money and domestic problems. The families move in there, with the promise of a bright future. They leave broken.

Hope springs there, and is quickly drained away.

Yes. Yes I did.

I just flipped my hair so hard that my dangly earring flew up and whacked my glasses. I’m lucky I didn’t lose the bead on that sucker.

Since when am I a hair-flipper? and of such force? I’m growing my hair out, so I suppose that has something to do with it.

Ok well to take your mind off of this puzzling puzzle of me and my hair and the flipping and all, how about a few link-gems I found? THIS is why I don’t get to bed on time… I’m diligently tracking down entertaining and/or thought-provoking and sometimes just plain waste-of-time links for you, dear readers (or, not - as there ARE no readers to this super secret anonymous blog). Anyhow.

Links!

A old favorite of mine.

Poke the Penguin

I’ve never seen one so big before!

Stupid Bush - too bad this one is not audible… THAT would be hilarious!

Have fun!

This morning I woke up, groggy, nauseous, and in general felt like hell. Went through my normal morning routine and even got to work a few minutes early - though I still felt awful.

I don’t know why, but it just stuns me to notice that I feel like a completely different person after a bunch of coffee. Different in a totally fantastic, I can’t believe it’s not awful, I fucking love coffee kind of way.