quick story

Driver em

Katie rides the bus to school now. The *long* bus people. sheesh. In fact, it’s probably at least 50 yards long.  I, unfortunately, have to drive her to the bus stop--at the first hint of dawn--because she now attends public school in the school district where her father lives, and they ain’t sending a bus out Trenton-way. In fact, the district has an armed force of District Eligibility Officers who are tasked with keeping us po' folks out of their crapass schools. These guys lurk around school bus stops looking to snag Trenton parents trying to sneak their kids into the "good schools" out in the ‘burbs by pretending to live out that way. And there are penalties for this--expensive penalties: they bill you at the student per diem rate. Ouch.

According to district rules, however, Katie and Joe are eligible to attend school in the suburbs-they need only wake up in the district (at their father’s house) 3 mornings a week. But on the other 2 mornings, it’s a mad dash to the bus stop. On more than one occasion, we’ve hit the bus stop at 50 mph with doors flying, just as the bus driver collected the last kid at the stop onto the bus.And only once have we ended up out of position behind the bus and had to chase her to her next appointed stop. That bus driver knows how to giddyup those 50 yards of sleak yellow school bus on down the autobahn! The careening vehicle in her rearview was no distraction whatsoever. But now she's beginning to recognize my car as the lunatic white sedan that launches itself sideways under her front wheels, and she waits for Katie to tumble out and slink over to the bus with not the slightest hint of mortification.

Problem is that Katie's father has had his fill of Katie's fledgling puberty-fired ways, and he has delivered her back to me along with all of Katie's belongings, boxed, onto the floor of my house with a thump and a snarl. "Her behavior is UNACCEPTABLE!! She can't come back!!"

Whatever dude. Good thing I've got this whole Flying Under the Radar thing going, so if those District Commandos ever stake out her bus stop, they'll never notice us.    

Shut the barn door!

when you add up the direct costs, i didn't really lose all that much--$1000 cash money, one pair diamond earrings, one diamond engagement ring, one gold wedding band, and one white gold amethyst ring. The bad guy can keep it all. Wedding band? boo fucking hoo. Diamond engagement ring? Well, it was a symbol of sorts--a symbol of how deeply fucked my marriage was from day 1. I hated that ring. Diamond earrings? Diamond crumbs, maybe half a sneeze between the two.

The amethyst ring, however, was important. My Great Aunt Sarah and i share the same birth stone, amethyst. She gave me the ring when i graduated from high school, and she in turn had received it from her grandmother (i think it was grandmother--i need to check this, also want to see if it goes back again) when she graduated from high school.  At any rate this goes well back in the em family matriarchy.

Trenton police dept advised me to check all the local pawn shops, and i've made the rounds twice. Every time i see a purple stone my heart jumps, but no luck yet. plan on another swing through tomorrow. i want my ring back you bastards, and i won't rest till i get it. be forewarned.

i've jolted awake in the middle of the night only 19 time since the robbery
. . . "huh? wha . . . wha was tha?"
instantly listening with all my might, heart thumping away at late-night's amplification of things ambient. And i've moved with all em haste to shore up the security gaps in em manor. shortly, those guys in the armored trucks will arrive and install motion detectors and sirens and secure all the doors and windows. 

now would someone help me corral all those horses? 

   

Who you calling...

I've been accused of 3 things in my life that I didn't like too much. As it turns out, at least 2 of them are not true.

1. "You turned left in front of me and made me hit you!!"
2. "You're damaged goods."
3. "You stole plants from my garden and put them in your garden."

Number 1 was yelled at me by an elderly driver and his 2 elderly passengers. When they reported this to the traffic officer, the cop asked, "but then how did you end up across her lane with a dent on your passenger side door?" Exactly.

Number 2 was some crap yelled at me by my ex-husband in a moment of extraordinary malignancy. He wanted to reconcile, but then stood me up on our "date." I cried, mad as hell that I let him hurt me yet again. His explanation--"you're damaged goods em."

And 3. A recent accusation made by my neighbor. "I see those poppies and other plants and rocks from my garden in your garden."
me: "What? Why would I take your stuff?"
her: "I've been asking myself the same thing."

This could not stand. I didn't steal anything from her garden, and I had to make her understand that. So I returned in a couple of days to discuss it with her.
me: "Barbara, what in the world makes you think I would steal things from you? I bought all my plants at the store in Pennington--"
her: "You and I both know you can't buy poppies in a store!"
me: "--What the...? OK, whatever. I bought my plants at the store in Pennington. I was with my mother at the time. Would you like to speak with her?"
her: "No, that won't be necessary."
me: "And anyway, here are your poppies right here, in this overgrown section."
her:  "You and I both know that I had lots more poppies than that. I also had garden lamps--where are they then?"
me: "Are you crazy?!

Yes, I still needed to convincer her that I didn't take anything from her garden. So I sent my mother over on Saturday while Barbara sat on her porch to explain that we shopped together recently for a variety of plants, including poppies.
Mom: "Hello Barbara! How are you? Now what's this misunderstanding about poppies all about?"
her: *dramatically ignores my mother*
Mom: *uses her measured mother-voice* "Barbara, em and I bought her poppies and some other things recently at Stony Brook..." 
her: *whistles in her over-cooked depiction of one person ignoring another*

That does it. You've been disrespectful to my ever-polite and friendly mother. The gloves are off and Plan: Make Barbara Feel Foolish is in full swing. When I drove by yesterday evening and she was outside I slowed down and told her that I’ve got a new Astilbe plant still in its container in my garden...
her: “A wha?”
me: "An ah-still-bee, Barbara. It's a perennial. A friend gave it to me the other day; please don’t decide it’s yours.” Then I pulled away while she crabbed nonsense at the back of my car.  I might just stop by every time I get something new and show her the receipts.

Why she would ever jump to such conclusions, and then hold tight to them despite all the reasonable arguments to the contrary is just beyond me. Newsflash! There’s a thief in Trenton! Must be em!

Monday throat-clearing

My eye won't stop twitching. It's been 3 days. I'm ready to take a spoon and scoop it out of my skull. Look close and tell me if you can see it twitch... there! just then, it twitched--did you see that? Damn thing. Do I look like Inspector Dreyfus? He had a major twitch going on.  It's probably work-related, because work is plucking my last nerve right now.

Remark of the day, courtesy of Sam--"You're ugly." Directed at me. Why? Because I told her she misspelled esophagus. *eye twitches*

Question of the day, courtesy of Katie--"Esophagus? Is that what a baby hippopotamus is called?" *eye spasms*

Request of the day, courtesy of the malignancy who is my ex-husband--"Come and pick up your children--they are insufferable!!" *eye convulses*

Uh oh, 3 minutes til Judge Wapner. Uh oh, 2 and a half minutes til Judge Wapner

I've finally figured it out. I have struggled throughout my life in relationships because . . . I am autistic. Unfortunately not of the savant variety. 

Autism--characterized by great difficulty in communicating with others, inability to understand jokes or read between the lines and a somewhat unintentional lack of consideration for those outside of their 'sensory independence'; their independent world.
--Wikipedia

Great difficulty in communicating with others, inability to understand jokes or read between the lines...
My marriage--characterized by put downs, bullying, bellowing, and general brutishness. A representative snapshot: I never got any presents. Well, almost never. Together 15 years, that's 15 Christmases, 15 birthdays, 15 Valentines Days, and 15 anniversaries, plus birthing 3 big beautiful babies (hell yes that's a gift-giving situation). I got maybe 5 gifts total. Mostly I ignored it, because life's too busy and money's too tight for a token gift every time you turn around. But it irked. And when I would remark, the reaction was swift, loud, and clear--you don't deserve them. OK fine whatever but I've clearly missed something here I'm a sociable accommodating spouse who works full time while raising 3 children and maintaining a household but I don't deserve a present every once in a while? OK fine whatever maybe you're right. 

But sometimes, I'd get a little something--eg, an engagement ring. Yes, it was 2 years and 1 child after we were actually married, that's ok how nice thank you honey!!  But then came the story behind the ring--he had it made by jewelry-maker-friend/sister-of-former-boss, Skank Bitch Piece of Shit. The same SBPS who he had had an affair with only months after we were married, and while I was pregnant with our first child. He confessed the same day that he was fired from that job by SBPS's brother, only days after I had given birth. Spun it as a "I need to be totally honest with you" but my sense is he feared the next shoe to drop was going to be the word on that little on-site action, so he was pre-emptive, and I let him keep to his storyline.

However. I hated the fucking ring. Hated The Fucking Ring. Ugly asymmetrical design had an open band. Correct me here--isn't the band on a wedding/engagement ring supposed to be a closed *ring*? A circle, to signify everlasting faith, love, and commitment or some such nonsense? And hello, what am I supposed to make of a the fact that it was made by SBPS? Ummm, this would be OK with me why? But did I share my numerous reservations about the ring with him? No. I thanked him and praised him for the lovely gift and then buried it in my top drawer. Thereafter, I had to deflect the occasional "how come you're not wearing the 'jewelry' I bought you" queries, in particular juxtaposed with new holiday gift-giving opportunities. A simple "oh, my hands got a bit too big for it" usually assuaged.   

And a somewhat unintentional lack of consideration for those outside of their 'sensory independence'; their independent world.
And now I've done a stupid fucked up impulsive boorish selfish small mean miserly rotten thing. Driving home last night with Katie after her softball practice, we were talking about this and that and the other, and then I heard out of her mouth a standard line from the past--"Well how come you never wore any of the jewelry my dad gave you?"  And out it came, in about 10-12 angry words, surprisingly hot and enormously humiliating vomitus on the "jewelry that my dad gave you."

Sometimes I fucking hate myself.

Amusingly self-deprecating or low self-esteem?

They pop out of my mouth unbidden--jokey remarks tweaking my own foibles, knuckleheaded maneuvers, and clumsy pratfalls.

One faction in the personal em advisory cabinet declares repeatedly that I need to stop any and all non-self-reinforcing talk. It sets a tone.  And as it turns out, certain junior elements in the professional em editorial support crew have become skillful in anticipating my self-referential teasing and *beat me to the punch.* So instead of me turning a humorous phrase on my own forgetfulness, I get scooped while assistant #4 cracks wise, "em, memory banks filled up with more important trivia?" ha ha haaaaa. so funny. BOING! Uh oh, the shark ears again.

I guess assistant #4 is on to me. I forget reams and reams of things. Important things. Assistant #4 really has no idea just how much I have forgotten. *wags finger* In fact, I've forgotten more than assistant #4 will ever know! Yeah right. Assistant #4 knows better. In fact, assistant #4 probably knows that I keep forgetting to go to my mother's house to change the light bulbs in her kitchen. And that she has to get her dinner by the light of the open fridge door. That is just pathetic. Assistant #4 also probably knows that I left a gas burner in the 'on' position all day today while I was at work, so that when I got home tonight, the house was filled with the heavy/sweet stink/taste of natural gas fumes. That is bad. Really bad. So bad that it should have killed the parrot, Rummy, but somehow, it did not. Assistant #4 probably also knows that I . . .

Ah crap. I've got so many competing whacks to take at myself right now, I just don't know where to start/stop.    

Get a grip already

It's been a long time since my marriage finally ended. Yet I still can't talk to the ratbastard--emotion-adrenaline kicks in and out goes any rational thought. Even if it's the most innocuous of conversations, I get all edgy and panicky. Then my ears get hot, and this shoots straight into my brain along the ear canals, and then the inside of my head blares loud TV white noise instead of the typical em thought-wave patterns--calm, balanced, level-headed, and logical. But even more ridiculous, I haven't looked him in the eye at all this entire time. Not once. He might have gotten the facial tattoos of an Amazonian Yanomamo tribesman for all I know.

Intellectually, I know this is silly immature counterproductive and idiotic, but I can't seem to change it. Dumbass.

My ex-husband is a malignancy—illustrative case # 398,799

My daughter Katie wants to be a cheerleader. I have NO idea where it comes from, as I was a soccer player and wanted to be on the field playing, not on the sidelines cheering. But that’s cool. If she can stand up to the teasing she’s gonna get from her sister, then I say go for it. Do your best. Try your hardest. And don’t get caught committing too many cheap fouls.

She called me at work at 4:15 Monday from her father’s house (Monday is his day). Crying, she said “Mom, I need to ask you a favor—*big hitchey intake of breath* will you come pick me up and take me to the cheerleader tryouts tonight at school?”

“What? Where’s your father? Why can’t he take you? Tonight is my night off laundry night!”

“He says he won’t take me because it’s at 5 and that interrupts the dinner hour.”

Slow burn. “Okay Kate, I’ll come. Be at the door.”

So. Never one to miss a chance to leave work early, I got up and got in the car for the 50 min drive to Moe’ville PA to grab her so I could turn around and race back into Trenton to get her to the tryouts only slightly late. I pulled up at his (actually her) house—okay, good, Kate was right there and ready to go. Uh oooh… *instant mood droop* He’s coming outside. And whoa! he’s gotten fat. Man-boobs, barrel torso, stick legs. Even his head got fat--it looked just like a big honey baked ham, his face all swollen and shiney and pinkish-red. (Yup, pleased about that.) But the hamface wanted to talk at me, attempt justify his refusal to be even minimally flexible. “Wuh wuh wuh. Wuh wuh wuh wuh wuh the dinner hour wuh wuh go over the bridge 4 times in one day!! wuh wuh WHY DON'T THEY GET DIFFERENT COACHES!! Wuh wuh.”

No I don’t understand.

Still amazed that he invariably chooses the route of greatest assholeness when faced with life’s little detours, I stopped arguing talking and pulled away in the car. As we left, Katie turned to wave and saw him standing in the middle of the road giving me the finger. Nice.

Car troubles and bees

I had a baaaad marriage. Look to the right--I’ve got the category to prove it. ;-) Lots of emotional abuse to bask in—name calling, cheating, lying, criticizing, looming, barking orders—that sort of thing. And he backed up his bark by staying unemployed and stoned. The wheels fell off this relationship early, but down the road I finally steered on over to the curb and got out. When I started blogging, I figured I’d spill out all this built up bile, but not much seems worth putting down. For one thing, it’s dated, old news (although some of my rants from back then are prodigious ;-)), and B) I’m working on moving on.

Working on it. The thing with the boy earlier this year showed me something about myself—I doubt the people close to me. Softer than ‘don’t trust’ but an internal check point nonetheless. Didn’t even realize I was doing it until I started to get close to the boy. Tried to explain it to him without really understanding it myself and he took offense, and the wheels promptly fell off that relationship.

Ah well, live and learn. But these things showed me something else that I’ll be keeping in mind—pay attention to omens in life that blare at you like car horns!

Omen 1. On the very first date with the boor I ended up marrying. We were to meet at a place in Princeton for drinks dinner whathaveyou. So off I sped in my little red Spider, excited. Not so fast young lady—the front wheel fell off my car on Mt View Rd. Now how clearer can an omen be for Christ’s sake? Does it need to land on me and sting me? Apparently.

Omen 2. On my wedding day. Got married on the rainiest day in history, but that’s not the omen. The omen came in the form of a wicked-painful bee sting to the soft inner part of my upper arm. Hurts just remembering.

Omen 3. On my 7th anniversary. Managed to avoid all bees for 7 long years, but I got a wake-up sting from the bee, who was annoyed that I wasn’t listening to my omens.

As I said, live and learn. I’ll keep that check point in place, but do better to heed those bees.

a cancer spreads

my Sam. 13 and smart like that! but a handful. Surprise!
She’s depressed and I can’t help. Maybe you can. She hasn’t played with her friends in a year maybe. She won’t bathe, wash her hair, or brush her teeth unless I practically turn myself inside out. She won’t change the flappy rags she prefers for days on end. She’s gained a great deal of weight. Her skin is in bad shape. She sure as hell won’t do any household chores.

She’s taking Zoloft but after a hopeful few weeks, it’s now looking useless. She sees a counselor, usually with me. The counselor strongly believes she should under no circumstances spend time with her father during his weekly visitation. Why not you ask? Because he is a leaking shitbag of the first order. Unlike her younger sister and brother, Sam has always been a target of his—he badgers, berates and belittles her mercilessly. Jacks her up with the name-calling, not the choice names he reserved for me (just call me the c^nt), but brutal verbal clubs nonetheless. So you can see it’s really no wonder that she’s damaged, depressed.

But here’s the thing—Sunday night, in the course of trying to wrench her away from her near-permanent position in front of the computer, she called me a goddam whore. I am crushed beyond words.