Archive for September, 2008

10 toes

Seriously though? These bad boys are over 4 thousand dollars? They’re not even real crocodile. They’re pumps. I just don’t get it but clearly I should have gone to shoe design school. Oh, and I want them. A lot. Sometimes, I dream about shoes. It’s a sickness.

Great news? These are back. When I saw them, and subsequently snapped up a pair for myself, I was overcome with the desire to buy black leggings, a long t-shirt, and put long lacy ties into my giant hair. While I miss the 80s something fierce, I’m eternally grateful that YouTube and Google were not around. I’d never be able to leave my house again.


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Totally losing the fashion battle

And I simply NEED to have a camera hanging off my neck at all times.

Today we woke up at 9am sharp. Coincidentally, that is the starting bell for her hugely expensive pre-school. We were only a little late but the price for rushing around? I didn’t get to vet the outfit. So, she wore striped tights, denim shorts, an appliqued t-shirt, a fur vest, pink sparkly sneakers, and a miner’s light on her head. They must think she comes straight from the insane asylum every day. I suffer the whole “don’t discourage individuality” self-loathing battle in hopes of a sliver of normalcy. Frankly, I don’t even know why I bother. That kid hasn’t got one hott shot at normal.

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I hate late

I’m am in no way, shape, or form a difficult spouse. It’s true. I’m very accepting of SugarDad’s quirks and I go out of my way to support him in any way I can. I figure that this marriage is the only one I’m ever going to have so I give it real effort.

I cook. I do all the shopping for anything that comes into this house ie food, clothing, furniture. I process it all to go out of the house. I do all the cleaning – including all the ironing because SugarDad likes the way I do shirts better than how the cleaner does shirts. I handle all insurance issues and all things Sunshine related. I do a shit ton around this joint.

All I ask is that he’s on time. And not for everything; just for appointments.

We had an appointment in Boston. I booked it, reminded him 3 times with emails to work, and made sure the car was gassed and ready to go. I had a snack prepared for Sunshine, her sitter was here, and I was ready to go. He was 20 minutes late. And when he rolled into the house, he had to tinkle AND spend 5 minutes in his office doing god knows what. WTF?

So, we got to spend an hour in the car together – me seething and him aggravated because I’m aggravated.

And, he won’t apologize. Later today he’ll call me and say he doesn’t like it when I’m mad at him. I’m thinking that this is the time I don’t forgive him. This is the time where I tell him I’m up to my eyebrows with the one motherfucking thing I ask of him. Seriously? Seriously?!

The last time we had a big brawl it was over time. I’ve explained it a zillion times. I’ve explained that it’s a common courtesy and I feel like I’ve earned that. I ask one thing and one thing only so what does it say about him, me, us that he won’t be on time?

But can you just see the court documents?

My lawyer: Thank you, Your Honor. The Petitioner asks the court for dissolution of the marriage in reaction to more than a decade of missed appointments, late fees, no show fees, and must plain aggravation. She has quite clearly explained this situation to her soon to be ex-husband innumerable times and she is, quote, sick of yelling into a hole in the ground, endquote.

Judge: Would the Respondent like to offer anything?

His lawyer: Um, Your Honor, he should be here any minute …

Yeah, so, I feel stupid being so mad about this one issue but honestly – it makes me nuts. And he knows it. And he continues to be late anyway.

I’m so aggravated. Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

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…so full.


The vast majority of all people get 28 permanent teeth. Actually, approximately 95% of all humans get 28 permanent teeth and 4 wisdom teeth. Sunshine had her dental x-rays today. Turns out, she’s going to have 26. I forgot to ask if wisdom teeth are out of the question. I was stunned into silence. That’s unusual. But! You gotta love my family. SugarDad calls them ‘The Amoeba’ because they move as one; one brain; shared purpose; lovely and bizarre.

<ring ring>

me: Good afternoon.

voice: Mo…

me: Hi, this is Stupormom. Who’s this?

voice: Hey! It’s Auntie R. I was supposed to call Auntie Mo and tell her we landed. [I’m not such a large part of the amoeba, but the rest of it moves in kimbo, always aware of the movements of other parts]

me: I was just thinking of you! We had an interesting dentist appointment. I’d like to ask you if anyone in the family has not had all their teeth come in. It’s usually genetic and it may also be a gene marker for Native American descendants.

auntie R: No, no. Not that I can think of. [starts talking to my other aunt. Repeats the question.]

other auntie: [I can now overhear this conversation over the phone] Oh yeah. Some of my molars didn’t come in. Neither of my kids got all their molars, either.

auntie R: Really? I had no idea! You don’t have all your teeth? Huh. Stupormom says it’s genetic and that it can be a gene marker for Native Americans.

other auntie: Genie what?

auntie R: Gene MARKER. You know – what you’re made from. For Native Americans. Like you know how the men aren’t hairy…

other auntie: Oh! Right! Grandma was an Indian. Do you remember what kind?

auntie R: No, but remember that excellent thing she used to wear on her head to all functions?

At this point she closes her phone, having completely forgotten I was on it.

Frankly, Sunshine is lucky there is not more apparent things going on with her. I’m sure they’ll wait to surface in adolescence….

*Gates and Seinfeld

Have you seen the new ads on television with those two birds? I have no idea what they’re selling, but I’m buying. Hello? I have TIVO. I am one of the 85% of people who skip the advertisements because I can. And I rewind to watch them every time. And I have zero idea what the commercial is about. Either it’s an ad campaign designed to hook us in with a teaser, or it’s too subtle for me. Could be either, really. Or both! I have no idea but sign me up!

*What? I called you?

I broke up with my mom once and for all in March. Long story short – she called and said that her friends were wondering why “her own children didn’t come to help her move.” I was stupified. I paid for her last 3 moves, she stole $80K+ from me (yup. life’s savings), and the last time I’d seen her she let her dog attack my grandmother and child. So, yeah. I asked her for the numbers of these ‘friends’ and offered to clear things up for them. Precisely, I said this:

Would it make it easier for your friends to understand your ‘ungrateful children’ better if I gave them a call? I could explain that you abandoned my brother when he was 16 to go live with your boyfriend. Left him to heat a house and feed himself until I got wind of it and moved back to Vermont SO HE COULD GRADUATE HIGH SCHOOL? That might explain why he’s not hot to help you. Again. I could explain that you allowed me to be raped for 10 years while you lay sleeping. Would that help? Would that clear things up? And while we’re at it, fuck you. Don’t call me ever again. You’re an asshole and you’re toxic and I just can’t stand that you ALWAYS try to make ME feel guilty. And don’t call my grandmother anymore. [Recently deceased grandfather’s widow – her step-mother] You’ve never had one nice thing to say about her ever and you keep hitting her up for money. Get a fucking job and contribute something besides vitriole and lies to this planet.

So, that was it. And she’s pretty much left everyone alone. I’m sure she’s plotting something, but I don’t even give a shit. My grandmother is coming to visit in two weeks. She told me last night that my mother phoned her and left a message. My gram, being ridiculously lovely woman that she is, returned the call. My mother said, “Oh, I called you? I’m so sorry. I don’t remember doing that….”

All I want for Christmas is one well placed clot to try and find her heart.

*Nick and Nora’s Infinite Playlist

I’m dying to see this! You?!

*he’s gone

My father was murdered on Memorial day. I’m sure I’ll write about it when I can. In the meanwhile, I had about 400 thank you notes to write. They’ve been on my desk … sitting, addressed, written, signed … for more than 3 months. I kept forgetting to get 1 cent stamps. Or something like that. I took them to the post office yesterday. Bought the 1 cent stamps. Completed the postage. Put two giant hands full into the ‘Out of Town’ slot – and couldn’t let them go. Just stood there, hands in the slot up to the middle of my arm. Couldn’t let them go.

Let them go. Thanked people for coming to see him. For saying goodbye. For saying such lovely things. For making good use of my handkerchiefs. For telling me how much he meant to them. I thanked them for loving him and saying goodbye.

So, I guess he is really, truly, honestly, and permanently gone. The sneak attack crying is back. So fun.

*Fringe will return in …

Seriously? It tells you, “Fringe will return in 70 seconds” and I’m 97% more likely to stay put. And watch the commercial. Which I rarely do. Why? I don’t know. But, Barack Obama, please advertise on Fringe. Mad pull, Mon President, mad pull. Plus, I know a lot more about bipolar disease now…

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I’ve been invited to a book party tonight. I have about 2 friends here and one of them tries really hard to include me in her huge social circle. I do appreciate it. So, 18 of her closest friends and I will be looking over Usborne books. They look good, and I want my kid to read so I can finally read my own damn books … but I digress.

I happened upon this title and thought, “Damn! I wonder if they have any books that teach her things that will be useful for ME!”

How about:

How to Make a Perfect Martini*

How to Make My Own Fucking Bed

How to Run the Dishwasher and Then Show Daddy

How to Recognize the Onset of a Migraine and Be Quiet For a Whole Afternoon

*When I was 6 years old, my grandmother taught me 2 amazing lessons that kind of went hand in hand. She taught me how to make a perfect dry martini. In her car. Cuz, you know, she was usually cocked and it ain’t easy to make drinks and drive. She had a vermouth squirter that was a little cherub who shot the vermouth out of his penis. Nice.

Lesson 1. Squirt fake urine/vermouth into a glass. Roll it around and then shake the glass out the window, leaving a fine hint of vermouth. Fill shaker with ice from cooler. Interesting to note here that sometimes my grandmother, Mimi, wasn’t wearing pants, but she always had a cooler full of ice in the front seat. Pour vodka over ice and shake til you have bicep burn. Pour chilled vodka into vermouth-hinted glass; add olive – also kept in cooler. Have an olive for yourself and know it may be lunch. Hand perfect martini to Mimi and enjoy the ride.

Lesson 2. Sometimes it’s hard for Mimi to steer. Sit on her left leg and work the steering wheel. Hang your left arm out the window and look cool like she does. Ask if you can hold a cigarette. Not lit, of course. Turns out she won’t let you smoke until you’re 11…. She’ll work the pedals – gas and brake – but feel free to alert her of cars that are stopped in front of you. She’s a real bear when she spills that drink.

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I once blogged …

… a lot. All the time. About all kinds of things. It was pretty funny, and some people have been so kind as to email and say I’m missed. I call “Bullshit!” but, then again, I’m not overly gracious.

I’ve missed the blogging. My life has exploded and I do need a place to empty my head. For the very first time in my life I think I may be getting depressed. That chills me. I have a 4 year old. A husband. A new job that I love and it’s virtual. That’s great because if I can get my shit straight on the phone, no one can tell I’m in the same sweats for 3 days and haven’t showered in longer. Yeah, we’re all starting to worry around here. Luckily there are bouts of ‘totally okay’ so I’m hopeful.

So, here I go again. I’m gathering the other stories into my anthology. I want to put pictures with the tales and give them to my darling girl in the future. Maybe to my mom to explain things. Maybe not.

I’d give you a histogram of my present battlefield of disasters, but it bores even me. So, I’m going to wade in. Just write. It’s helped in the past … My kid gives me tons of material that needs to be captured. My husband is at once the most wonderful thing ever to happen in my life and in danger of being clubbed with the back end of a hammer. So, pull up a chair. Look at how totally fucked I am right now and rejoice in your normalcy. Just don’t leave mean comments or a kitten will enter heaven early, and it’ll be on *your* head.



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