Tuesday, January 31, 2006


Next time I get married, it will be to Rob Thomas.

As much as I love chocolate, I fucking hate it.

How the hell did that person in Tennessee enter my blog through my dashboard?

Seal doesn't eat after 2 p.m.?

Saturday, January 28, 2006

And thank you ma'am

"...AaaaaAAAAh, BABY! My heart is full of love and desire for you

Now come on down and do what you gotta do (what you gotta do!)

You started this fi-yah down in my soul (down in my soul!)

Now can't you see it's burning out of control (Out of control!) ..."

Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating the joy after sex a bit -- it's more like, FINALLY! It's hard to get too wound up when most of my energy was spent on aligning the stars. I had showered, shaved, scented, put on easy to remove clothing --I was commando and good to go. The hope I had been suppressing started to grow when I saw that both children had actually fallen asleep as planned.

And there it is -- the word "planned". I know there are several cliches revolving around the idea of not getting too attached to plans, but when you have young children, the idea of plans coming together takes on new heights in psychological punishment.

Here is a good place to point out another golden rule of planning/parenting; Never vocalize what you are about to do. We didn't even get a chance to motion toward the breeding ground when there was the knock on the door (I had really begun to believe we were going to get away with it that easy). "Mom, I don't feel so good." Those words are among the top ten reasons why there isn't enough sex going on in the lives of people who are married with small children.

No time to run for a puke bucket on that one. She did make it to the linoleum of the bathroom floor, and all the way to the toilet for the final waves of puking -- in the world of puke, I consider this a victory.

The other victory was that it was just a bad meal and not an -- up all night puking -- virus. After clean up and half an episode of Miss Spider's Sunny Patch Kids, we were able to resume with our plans.

Sexy story, I know. I have a bunch more just like it. I could write a column for Playboy -- I'll call it My sexy sex life.

Friday, January 27, 2006

It rots that I can't take a shot at my mother without suffering guilt

It's my blog -- I should be able to call my mom a mental without having guilt about it. I've earned the right to take a poke at her.

When I read Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs, I wasn't stunned by what happened in his life, I was fascinated by his ability to lay it out the way he did. I'm still jealous of how he talked about the insanity of the people in his life without a load of sympathetic qualifiers for the people who let him down. I want that -- I want to talk about the freak show without having to prove to everyone that I understand what a tragedy mental illness can be. I want to load up on the gallows humor and not lay down one single apology to anyone I might offend.

When I say something that robs my mother of her dignity (even if I'm just bearing witness), the shoes fly to the other feet and I am barraged with 72 hour holds, lithium allergies, halidol overdoses, unjust judicial systems and fucked up mental health facilities. I wade through what is true and what I have been programmed to think (I was an adult before I realized everyone in Walworth county isn't stupid and the sheriff's department wasn't out to get my mom -- except for when they were because she was scaring the sane people at random).

And I have the comparative side of the coin with my father, who also suffers from a bi-polar disorder. When my parents snap, it's not -- up all night painting the house -- mania. They formulate plans for space travel, worship Jesus in scary hand holding ceremonies, they wear helmets to keep out offending rays or to save their skulls from the police and a whole host of other protections (apparently, helmets are handy), they take showers with clothes on (and the helmet), and throw things at you on a whim -- all kinds of behaviors which indicate looking into medication might not be such a bad idea.

I understand that for those of whom popping a little prozac doesn't help matters much -- that there is a labyrinth to go through to get the proper medication and dose which will be of benefit. I've watched one parent go through drooling on himself while navigating the maze, but he stayed the course and he found lasting sanity and satisfaction. It was not easy for him and maybe for some it is not possible, but far too many of you give up at the first sign of discomfort. What if it was worth it to lose your sense of self for a while? Wouldn't it be nice if medication provided you with a version of yourself who didn't have to deal with aliens in order to get the sacrament?

It's more likely that you are fed up and don't know how to advocate for yourself and so there you are -- a tragic mess of mental illness and bad manners. Don't let it get you down, you have options. And for God's sake, if you are reading this, then you have internet access -- use it to check into some of the latest treatments. Go to the sites that will treat you like a human being first and talk about your chemical and behavioral issues second. Work at being a part of your own posative mental health, don't just lay there and cry "not ill" when you want to avoid the topic and "I'm ill" when you've gotten yourself into some hot water.

There are plenty of system failures and parenting failures to point at with my mother, but there was also real help and real parenting which came and went while she remained arrogant and defiant -- clinging to every confirmation of ill treatment. And while I have real issue with much of the mental health system, I also have sympathy for them too. How many people are you going to find who are willing to show up to work and beat their head against a brick wall all day? While it's true that many people don't know how to talk to the human inside the crazy shell -- sane people can only take so much crazy, and tentatively sane people really shouldn't be dealing with crazy people at all. Even crazy people can only take so much of crazy people being around them -- at least they seem to have sense enough to tell each other to fuck off.

Many ill people seem to be under the impression that the world is their personal dumping ground and they want all the benefits of a socially appropriate world without having to be socially appropriate back -- the arrogance is maddening.

aside on that note: I knew this homeless guy who looked down on his fellow homeless mates because they did not find a way to wash themselves as he did because of his superior intelligence. He went on and on about what low life's most homeless people are. He was a master at changing the focus when conversation turned to his less than acceptable behavior in regard to his love of fire starting.

The minds ability to protect itself from a horrific reality is a wonder to me. I don't know if my mother is haunted, with an inability to express a sad and tragic inner world, or if she really is blissfully ignorant as to how she moves throughout the world. The woman can manipulate and go all misty eyed victim and she can turn all viperous when that doesn't work, so she's gotta have some inkling about what goes on in the minds of others. Is she really an ill fated victim or does she have more choice than she is willing to work for?

I grew up witness to things such as my mother dressed like a cross between Michael Jordan and Larry Bud Melman in shorts, beaded like she just got back from Mardi Gras, head shaved (parts of it anyway) and getting her shoes spray painted by the Rob Zombie loving -- "I'm cool with crazy people" -- street line painter. Sometimes I see her as though I were watching a documentary on mental illness -- she is quite an interesting and complex character through that lens.

Most of the time it's more regular and she is my mother and I want the ability to feel gyped and sorry for myself without guilt because I'm not counting my blessings. I want to indulge in a pure strain of anger over the abuse that has been perpetrated against me. But I can't. It's something I usually like about myself -- that I give a shit, that I can look at a bigger picture -- things like that. My pitty parties are tainted. Which, after all of this wishy washy thinking, is fine with me. "Poor babies" feel nice only for a moment and then I gotta get back to business. I don't usually hang with any one topic for long -- the only reason this post is so friggin long is because I can't find a proper place to stand on the topic of anger toward an ill person.

I don't want to contribute to a view toward mental illness which only serves to perpetuate the problems many ill people have to work against. At the same time, I am rethinking my tendancy to search for and deal with the good in people. You need to be accountable for your bullshit too -- every last good intentioned peice of it.

I am not angry that mental illness has robbed me of a decent mother -- I'm pissed that my mother has robbed me of a decent mother by not taking care of her mental illness.

Was that so friggin hard to say?

Yes, yes it was.

Thursday, January 26, 2006

Maybe I'll take a wrong turn and just keep going

This morning I caught myself thinking, "I have to call my sister and tell her about these new cascade 2 in 1 action packs. They really work great! I mean, I haven't had a spot on my dishes since I got them. And they are so easy, just toss one of those little pillow things in and that's it. They smell good too. I got two big packs of them from Sam's -- she's gonna have to go to Sam's and get some of these orange pillow things, I have to tell her about these -- my dishes are so clean."

To add to this proof that too much housework retards your brain -- after I got the dishes started, I turned around to survey the hundred hours of housework which lay before me (all hundred hours of mess created over the last 72 hours -- how does it work like that?!) ...Where was I?

Doing housework + thinking about housework + writing about thinking about housework = compound retardation.

I think I was about to say that after a certain amount of housework you lose your capability to do the housework. You look at a pile of paper and you know it needs to go in a file or the trash, but you can't remember how to get it in the file or the trash -- you stand there -- frozen -- looking at cups which need to find the sink, clothes looking for a laundry basket and the mind can't make the body put them where they belong. The body knows there is something wrong, it feels it just did all this and it won't keep doing it over and over, no matter how simple the mind says the task is, the body knows it's a trick and then the mind locks up in complete confusion.

Tuesday, January 24, 2006


Lizzie and I were discussing "if we had a treasure box" type scenarios tonight. She said, "If I had a treasure box it would have lips in it that would come out and kiss you! (she kissed me)." Then she had feet that would kick me, and they did.

My treasure was hands that would come out and tickle you. The hands tickled the child, then they hung her upside down and shook her a bit -- to which the child screamed, "there's no money in this piggy bank! There's NO money in this piggy bank!"

There's no money in this piggy bank?

Good one Liz!


Saturday, January 21, 2006

I have to cut my tongue out

My mother finally left, let the rejuvenating begin.

Part of the process is going to involve silence on my part -- which is not something I am usually capable of, but it's either that or the tongue removal.

When I talk I can hear voice similarities, that part is unpleasant but bearable. It's when I talk to my kids and I hear that tone, that way, that thing she does that makes everyone in the room go bug eyed with make it stop urges pushing eyeballs forth like a room full of Marty Feldman's.

I'm not near as annoying/horrifying, but it's there -- that thing.

I'm not being overly dramatic over a cliche about how we all grow up to be our parents, no. My mother? Not a good mother. Very bad mother. Shouldn't be let in my front door -- mother. Mentally ill in a --with psychotic episodes -- way, can't just turn her loose for the rest of society to deal with. Gotta do my part in the family support network for the mental.

She echoes for days after she's been here. When I hear her in my own voice it sends waves of self hatred through me. I just don't need to deal with the emotional chore of debating with myself about who I am, on top of the heavy burden of decompressing from the word defying upheaval she creates every time she is near.

Beyond the pressing of childhood buttons there is the energy tapping spectacle that lives in my world and her name is mom. It sucks, it sucks, it sucks out loud.

It sucks more now that I am a mom than it ever did while growing up with crazy.

My mother is here visiting

Is it time for my shot of heroin yet?

Thursday, January 19, 2006

I took the girls and their friend to pizza hut for dinner last night

Wouldn't you love to have been the ones in the booth next to us when Winnie's mention of an upset stomach prompted a frenzy of sharing childhood puke stories, complete with pantomime, explicit detail and sound effects?


Friday, January 13, 2006

Oh, now what?

The guys are here finishing a portion of our retaining wall. We have to build it in sections because we can't afford to do it all at once. We get to it when opportunity knocks in the form of enough extra block from jobs to do something with -- we save it up, it's worked well. All accept for that friggin neighbor who gets his undies in a bunch when the guys are in our yard.

The guys were here the other day dropping off materials for the project and here comes fuck face with his camera. I'm sure he doesn't know how much his last bit of hatefulness cost us (See september 30 2005, "did I say several hundred for the survey?" post). I wish there was a mediator service to call upon before he winds up dragging us through court over whatever imagined injustice he feels is going on over here.

I don't want to pay a bunch of money to prove we have a right to hire our own company to do our yard work. Pray for this bastard, please -- pray he finds his inner decent person.

Funny, he thinks people like us are what's wrong with the world, when CLEARLY it is persons such as he. Unreasonable prick bastard.

Suck eggs.

Thursday, January 12, 2006

Notes from the children

momma is a panic atacer and she atacted me and my sisster. -- from Winnie

A Christmas note left under the tree for me from Lizzie (with spelling help from Winnie):

Dear Mommy I Love Ya this yeer.


Friday, January 06, 2006

Petunia update #4: Call in the Father, cue "Taps" -- just in case

I have been avoiding writing this post. It's not that it's painful -- I feel no pain until well after the fact of things. For me, Petunia still has that one green area which means there's still hope. The avoidance helps the delusion stay in place.

Rich tried to tell me a couple weeks ago that it was over, and his news flash for me was that this was never a petunia to begin with. He thinks I've been babying a weed all this time. I beg to differ. What kind of school would send a kid home with sprouted weeds for Mother's day?

Petunia went downhill pretty fast after the bed making incident. Part of her died fairly quickly, but that one strand of her kept growing.

See how it looks like it's trying to crawl away? These days she seems to be crying, "just let me go."

I can't -- the strand is not dry, crispy, or brown yet. It looks as if she could rehydrate. Drink the water I give you Petunia, it's for your own good, you can make it through this. Where there is "could" there is hope -- we have to believe, we must believe.

It doesn't help that we have had no shining sun in these parts for the last 14 days (that's *14* days -- I don't live in Alaska for a reason). To quote a very famous ex-rock star turned humanitarian/reader of my blog and someone who cares about Petunia whom shall go by the name, "b" -- "Damn you photosynthesis!!"


Thursday, January 05, 2006

The snooze bar -- yet another tool of the devil

Well, there's Beck again, he's got a devil's haircut in his mind this time. I'm so tired that this entire post may wind up being one long string of word associations. I would stop typing, but it's the only thing keeping me awake right now.

Word association is not just for the written word, I do it in life too. People will be talking about something and a word will spark something off and I'll say my thought out loud like it's related to the conversation at hand. My entire life, people are like, "what?"

Staying true to my thought skipping ways, I'll bring it back around to topic #1.

The snooze bar -- sometimes you get those days where 9 minutes feels like hours, and it happens every time you hit the snooze. You kind of panic thinking you must have accidentally turned off the alarm, then you look, "No way! That was only 9 minutes? Oh, thank you God." and then it happens again and again and again -- you get several little nightimes in one morning. Those days are bait.

The rest of the days, you hit that snooze and each time churns a little more stomach acid and puts you into an unnatural sleep phase that will be impossible to escape for the next several hours. It will look like you are up and functioning, but part of you remains anesthetized -- bad things can happen. This is why I don't usually hit snooze anymore, this and children, children don't allow you to laze around about getting up -- they wake up and start talking to you.

Today I snoozed and now I pay. There's a part of my brain, right in front, that is dead asleep. I'm awake, I'm functioning, but there's that dead zone. I think it's the part of my brain that keeps me from being really stupid and without it, I'm really stupid. The stupid awake sleeper (See?).

Rich has it bad today too, he brewed two pots of water before he finally came together with some coffee grounds. Staying up late and hitting the snooze -- we're stupid.

Tuesday, January 03, 2006

I want to be five again

Lizzie: "Mom my foot feels funny."
Mom: "Oh I hate that -- pins and needles, huh?"
Lizzie: "No, it feels like there's three fairies in there."
Mom: "Cool!"
Lizzie: "It's not cool, it hurts."


Monday, January 02, 2006

"Where it's at"

One great thing about Christmas time is the sponge candy (looks like sea sponge, but is actually more the density of cooled lava). The stores in my area held back this year. I found one offering at a Sentry and it was chocolate covered --- this would not have been a problem if it weren't chocolate flavored wax.

Eating down to the heavenly sponge inside wasn't worth the bad chocolate experience. I was so disappointed that I gave it away.

Yesterday I got an after holiday's gift from Pick 'n' Save -- they had it in bulk. They must have got it in for new year's because it wasn't there for Christmas. It was chocolate covered, but it was fresh, melty, wonderful chocolate. I discovered the soundtrack to good chocolate covered sponge candy when I took that first delicious bite -- my eyeballs rolled back a little and Beck sang, "I got two turn tables and microphone."

He's so right.

Sunday, January 01, 2006

Guy handbook pg. 2

If you find yourself in a situation where you have to do housework, be sure to do it in a manner that makes everyone in the house really uncomfortable : Make lots of comments that imply the stupidity of the person you are cleaning up after. Rank on the systems and organizational methods of the rest of your family. Be as self righteous as possible.

If you can create a miserable and tense environment while you are cleaning, you will be asked to do it less often. If you master this technique -- the women around you may make special effort to prevent you from ever lifting a finger.