Snowstorms and Shitstories

We're pretty much in The Frozen Tundra of Doom, and I did the unthinkable.

I was planning on doing the shopping and the laundry on Friday, but my son woke up with a fever, so... I didn't. I didn't know. About the weather. Because I'm a dolt, and I avoid the news. -So we got snowed the fuck in, for real-real not for play-play, with very little in the house. Which makes me feel terrible. I'm Mom, ya know?!

It wasn't until yesterday afternoon, however, that I realized the depth of my failure.

I was cleaning up the bathroom, and found that there was but one roll of TP, and I was about to put it on the spool.

At first this just made me think of Charles Bukowski. He keeps it real. In the bathroom department.

I also got myself snowed in with absolutely no Midol.

It's the worst blizzard ever, you guys.

I woke up at 4a.m., and I was dying. I took three Excedrin and just kept dying. And panicking about TP. And coffee creamer. I'm really good at fretting. Grama would be so proud. -And that's when I started laughing hysterically.

I was downstairs by then, having a smoke and enjoying an As Seen On TV! commercial for The Bumpit, (I want to Bumpit, just to be a freak, but I don't live on Saturday Night Live, so it seems like a bad idea.) when The Memories of Blizzards Past came to visit, and brought with them The Shitstories.

And I love Shitstories. According to Grama, I am a Pollock for this reason. Despite the fact that we're Scottish. I discovered this when she meticulously filled in a few forms for the Census Bureau, no shit.

ANYWAY, I think I know where this TP Anxiety comes from. You see, I grew up in a great big house with one bathroom and 10 asses. The most important ass in the kingdom belonged to my Dad, and he was a champion shitter, and one of the great bathroom readers of our time. The bathroom was conveniently located off the kitchen, which was acoustically magnificent, and a great source of entertainment for diners.

Because... While you couldn't really eat an apple in my house because we weren't aloud to chew that loudly, my Father would get nuclear in the bathroom while we ate breakfast, and never give it a thought.

And I'm a Pollock, so I would sometimes just start laughing, gasping, wheezing, and he would cuss me out through the door, while setting off M-80s, which only made me laugh harder...

And sometimes, he'd be cussing me out and realize he was out of toilet paper, and his tone would suddenly change and become friendly. Which was, of course, hilarious. "Okay, okay, get ahold of yourself." he would say, and then, "Ummmmm... We're out of paper in here. Ummmmm... Yer gonna have to run to the store."

So, in my early teens, I would run across the street, through the field and the parking lot, and into the store, grab a giant pack of TP, and go to the register wishing I wasn't about to get waited on by this adorable guy, with this giant, family sized, industrial strength toilet paper. We plan on shitting. A lot!

And if it was snowing outside when he realized he was out? I'd better grab two packs. Ya hear about the snow? Yeah. It's enchilada night- bad combo!

And this one time, he'd been in there for about four hours, he had cussed three of us out because we had to pee... In a four hour period. He was in there blowin' it out, yelling at us... I heard a growl at least once *shiver*, giving orders from the thrown, and then he realized some things.

"Ummmm. Yer gonna have to run to the store. Get some money from yer Mom."

"I got it."

"No, you gotta get the TP and some Preperation H."

*sigh*

See. That's just wrong.

So I went out today- the roads are FUCKED UP, but I made it, and I stocked us up but good, and I bought two giant packs of TP- because it's Enchilada Night and we plan on shitting a lot, and when I put them on the belt I almost choked trying to stifle myself. When I got home, My Dude helped me unload, and I saw him trying not to laugh when he saw this. He didn't know about The Shitstories, he only knew that I was chastising myself for letting it go down that way.

"Did I ever tell you my Dad was an Epic Shitter?" I asked.

"Noooooooooooo...."

"Oh, he was like the J.R.R. Tolkien of Shitting." he looked at me funny.

"We ran out every time there was a weather situation, and I used to play Beat the Blizzard/Hurricane/Monsoon while he was stuck in the can."

"Wow."

"This isn't normal, is it?"

"I don't think it is, no."

Deep Thoughts, I Haz 'Em.

Ya know what sucks balls? Not being able to finish a thought!!!!! Especially when it is clearly an important one.

We were talking about our nephew, he's 15. I'm just gonna go ahead and tell you the truth: He's kind of an annoying putz. -I'm guessing that at 15, I too, was some kind of giant pain in the southy bits, but I already had the makings of who I am now.

I can remember moments when people, sometimes strangers out of nowhere, sometimes a trusted cousin, would offer bits of advice or encouragement that ring in my ears to this day. I knew the moments were important when they happened. Still, I was difficult to influence, so I had a lot of living to do. In defining moments though, I have always been who I really am. For whatever that's worth.

Totally different kinda pain, I guess, is what I'm saying.

Dicky hasn't had a beautiful childhood. There is much I don't know, but going on what I do know, sure, he's bound to have some kinks to work out. He's just already so damned good at Victim Face. And that is so dangerous.

I know it hasn't been easy, but nobody ever put a cigarette out on him. That sounds bitchy. I do have sympathy for his plight, but it's so easy to take The Victim Face and make it your whole life. And it's a fucking terrible shame! There can't be any happy in that!

I remember grinding my teeth and reminding myself that in X years I'd be 18. I had big plans for 18, let me tell ya! Sometimes I would chant, "Bide yer time. Biiiiide yer time." in my head as my Dad ranted IN MY FACE, spit flying, nostrils flaring, hurling insults a father shouldn't apply to his daughter. I've been jacked up. I've been kicked when I was down. -Nobody ever put a cigarette out on me!! Any inappropriate shit of a sexual nature only involved other kids, and I gather that's "normal"ish for the most part. There's definitely shit I just don't feel like talking about. It could have been much worse.

In the history of human suffering, I had acne. And maybe some rickets or something. Not a big deal.

Knowing that is both painful and freeing. -I feel pain for people who endure so much worse. It's hard to think of so many people with all the same feelings... Out there, suffering I don't even KNOW what.

But I can pitch mine up in the air with a hearty, "Fuck You!" You didn't get me. I knew. I knew every single day that I was going to get the fuck out and be happy.

And I can't help but think that that is what it takes to get there, as a person.

Most of the terribly wonderful people I know had to overcome some shit. I know people who had "everything" and appreciate nothing. I know people from all parts in between who fall from one end to the other, really. -But those really wonderful, admirable, good, smart people all have this one certain something in common. Maybe it's a concocotion that I'm over simplifying?

It's not victimy for sure though. -And I want to give him that. I want to make him understand that he can decide to do better than the examples he's been given.

But one of the problems is, his examples are all sexist, save for my husband. His dad and my ex-stepfatherinlaw... Oy vey. OY VEY!!!!! And his step-mom is somewhat literally some kind of coke whore. (coke, crack, meth- we've established that I don't know what's hot in junkidom these days).

Not good, people. His Mom is a lovable hot mess. (In truth, her stock went up from raging lunatic mess, she's made a lot of progress though!) His grandmother is sortof fantastic, but she sabataged her "good example" by being a 19 year stay-at-home-mom, vocal "feminist"* who ranted about evil men all the time in front of her husband (the checkbook), her two sons- one actual fucking genius (younger) and my husband, one of the most truly all around great mother fuckers I've ever met, I shit you not, and said Dicky... Which rounds out the female examples nicely with... Crazy.

And then there's me, a late comer. I have always tried to listen to him when he's trying to tell me something- because I think there's a shortage of that. And I've tried to be positive with him. I have only succeeded in convincing him that I'm the "nice but dippy" kind of girl. Which is a testament to how far he's shoved his head up his own ass.

I'm not nice.

But I see his eyes glaze over when I talk to him. And I want to choke him. It all just seems like part of an excuse not to try. And he could maybe be pretty good if he tried.

I just don't know what kind of magic shove it takes to tip the scales in those cases where its not inborn. Is it possible? When the person can't even put together that the opinions and ways of someone who mistreats you are probably FUCKED UP, and not the ones to emulate?

*sigh*

It's early yet, to expect him to let it go... But I can't help but want to rush that moment when he can drop the bags and begin to live.

I'm not always this long winded.

*"feminist" because she talked "the talk" without even knowing where the boots for the walking of the walk were located. And "the talk" was just sexism itself. That's not fucking right either. EQUAL, not better. Fuck. Right across the damned board.

Gosh!

I'm gonna have to try really hard to start writing over here. This page gives me writer's block. I think its because I was depressed and pissed off when I started this one. It was supposed to be my secret hiding place. My place to really blow it out.

But that passed with the winter, I suppose. I hate the cold. It always seems so determined to hang on, clawing itself into months that should be bright and a tinge warm. It seems longer every year, and colder and wetter, and finally when I'm on the verge of a break-down... A sunny day, and then I'm fine.

I hung my heavy jacket in the closet with this blog shoved in the pocket. But if 17 whole people are going to hang out, I feel compelled to squirm uncomfortably, attempt a smile, and make small talk. I no longer like the idea of a place to piss and moan though... Although I may have been known to do so. I can't bring myself to make anyone the sole and constant recipient of negativity. Oh, and I'm short on it right now anywhoooooo.

So earlier, I was thinking. Remembering, actually.

Before I met my husband, to my knowledge, I never knew anyone who actually smoked crack. I always thought of it as an expression. "Did you see that hair don't?! That bitch must be on crack!" followed by a hardy har, a heedy heee heeee.

I know. -And since this is starting over, only a couple of you might know how hilariously ridiculous it is that I was so... Naive? Dumb? I don't know what that is.

Almost every one of his friends has smoked the rock at least once, though several years ago. None of them jumped in with both feet and fucked their entire lives, but they tried it. -And every. single. time this comes up and another one tells the tale, I'm amazed and enthralled.

I think it's funny that I'm accused of being rebellious when the fact is, I was clearly, deeply effected by the Nancy Reagan years.

I'm not judging them exactly. If anything, I'm impressed that they all managed to keep a handle on their shit- it just shocks me every damn time. -And the only reason I'm explaining all that is because I've been known to say, "Well your friends smoke crack!" and then maybe throw in some jazz hands. Or tap dance a little... It depends entirely on the expression it causes. Sometimes I just smirk. Or do a Sarah Palin blinky thing.

So last night, for whatever reason, I threw that out there, and he said, "Really? You really never met a crack head?" And I said, "Not til I met you, baby!"

And then I started thinking out loud. Poor guy.

Well... I guess there's a chance that Jon smoked crack, but probably not during the time we hung out. Maybe after I went to England... He and Sasha broke up as BFFs and moved out of the apartment for some reason, and that woulda done it.

When I first started hanging out with them, they were weed only people. They were the first ones I smoked with, and I didn't know there was any such thing as more fun than what we had going.

We'd go home, get vamped up, and then one of them would pick me up and we'd hang at their place, getting stoned and maybe a little tipsy in preparation for The Gay Bar.

OH! The Gay Bar, a moment of silence. -Our affair was short lived, but one I wouldn't trade for anything. I had more fun there, dancing with 7 foot tall, redheaded, green sequin encrusted drag queens, and wispy fairy princesses, and leather clad raver boys, than I would in the next three years of my life combined. I never laughed so much, danced so freely, or felt so light.

One night Jon dragged me into his room to help decide what kind of polyester nightmare he should wear to the club- he was way into shirts with flame jobs on them... And as I went straight for his walk-in closet, he went for his dresser. "Pssssst! You want somuh this?" he hissed, cutting a line of coke on his hand mirror.

"Oh, no thank you!" I tried to sound unaffected.

"Come on, girl! Lets get CRAZAAAAAAAY!"

"I'm good, but thank you. I gotta work tomorrow, and you know it freaks me out to be OUT THERE if I'm all fucked up. What kinda shirt are you into? Are you wearing leather pants?!"

"Oooookaaaay!" he said like *I'm* crazy, sashaying into the closet with me.

Five minutes later he was back at the dresser, "Heeeey! RrrrrrrRrrrrrRrrrrrRrrrrrrr Ya gotta try this!" he ground his teeth, a maniacle, wide eyed panic-wonder all over his face. It wasn't entirely scary or disturbing, it was also incredibly funny. Jon was about 5'6", slight, blonde with one of those unfortunate haircuts that could be combed into a Cesar, spiked, parted, etc... And he had it parted right down the middle, like Alfalpha, his usually pale skin had turned cherry red, his teeth stood out, too white in contrast, grinding back and forth- he was almost cross-eyed, and he really wanted a coke partner.

"Jon. You gotta chill out. You gotta caaaaalm dooooooown. I really appreciate it, but I'm not doing coke. Are you gonna be okay?"

"Don't tell Sasha!"

"Okay, I won't." I said, knowing that if he started fucking up, I would have to tell her for his own damned good. "Are you cool? Do you need some water?... Er... Juice? Whataya do for coke?"

"Aaaahahahahahaahahaah! Girl, you crazy! Come on!" -and off we went for The Gay Bar. After he cleaned the glass.

"RrrrrrRrrrrrRrrrrrrrRrrrrrrrr! Ya Rrrrrrrready?!" Yikes!

It wasn't until weeks later that Sasha told me she'd made him promise to leave all that shit alone if they were going to live together again. Apparently he'd gone through a period of addiction while they were in College. We tried to keep a better eye on him, but YEARS later, I would run into the former proprietor of that establishment, and hear that it was largely due to Jon that the place was eventually shut down. -Along with his business partner, they had everything from coke to heroin available in the rest room, and eventually the shit hit the fan.

It's a shame in this world. I hate to think of that place not being there anymore. I can't help but think one day I'll drive past it again, and then park, and just go inside to see what's happening. And I hate that it's not a haven anymore. It was THE perfect place to get your feet wet, if you were just exiting the closet. It was the perfect place for a hag like me, and I've never been in another joint with the same atmosphere.

*SIGH*

Wait, what? Oh yeah. No. Never even SEEN a crack rock.

So, Of Course...

Fucking Blogger ate my reading list! It was there... *refresh*

*POOF*

The Fuck?

And I have no patience for this today. I don't even know who to shake my fist at! *flops limbs aimlessly* *rips out hair*

Today

My uterus feels huge.

That is all.

Why Does Everything... EVERYTHING Have to be SO HARD?!

I... *sigh*

I don't want much, I swear. I SWEAR! I can't think of a single thing I need that I don't have... Except for one thing that I'd really, REEEEEEEEEALLY like. It would make me happy every day! It would provide something to do every day over the summer while my son is home, so I won't have to go to the effing park and mingle with THOSE FUCKING PEOPLE.

Have I ever told you about the Home School People that frequent the local park? hahaha! Of course I haven't, I just got here! Starting over is weird. -They show up with their van full of weird, too-old-for-a-giant-wooden-castle-kids, and set them free!!! Usually with at least some kind of nurf rifle, but I saw at least one get out with a fucking cross bow! The adults sit outside the play area, which is meant for kids between the ages of about 2 and 10 or so, while the 11-16 year old kids wreak havoc. They knock over the little ones, running right through them like they're not there, as they utilize said castle for games of War. I've seen them push them off swings... It's ridiculous! And I have a very low tolerance for that kind of bullshit. Inevitably, I end up stalking outside the play area, red faced and nearly psychotic, to bellow, "DO THESE WILD ANIMALS HAVE PARENTS ANYWHERE?"

It doesn't usually go all that well from that point. I think it's funny that the Home Schoolers are generally painted as Liberal Hippies who don't want to subject their offspring to the regiment of the various school system options, in my experience they strike me more as people afraid their children might be forced to learn some science in Science. Or some history in History.

But I digress. (Often, make a note of it.)

There is this one thing that I would love, carress every day, clean and pat and call George, that would save me from that kind of summer. It would allow me to make this year perhaps fun enough to make up for last year, which was suckalicious in every way.

A pool.

Not an elaborate, olympic sized in-ground pool, costing thousands. No, I'm pragmatic. We have a drain field and I'm sure it would be a nightmare. All I want is an Easy-Set, soft sided, above ground deal. We know right where it should go, as I can still kindof see where the previous owners put theirs. The yard is already pretty level, so just the ground cover should take care of prep.

I think that because it's not a permanant structure, no permits would be required, but in an attempt to be an upstanding citizen of these here United States, I have spent most of the morning trying to find local ordinances and such, so that we can go about this the right way. I remember hearing, a couple of years ago perhaps, that there were new requirements for securing above ground pools, to make the world safer for fence jumpers.

No, this did not entail stiffer fines and punishments for those who insist on invading private property. The requirements were for the pool owners, of course. Something about pools of a certain size needing fences of a certain height, with specific barbed wire and guard dogs, or something like that... I just wanted to know the details before buying the thing.

I can't find shit!

Then the Husband asked, "So... How do we fill it?"

"A hose?" Obviously, right? But then, before he could even go all man on me, I started thinking. An 18' pool holds almost 4 thousand gallons of water... Not only would that take forever with a garden hose, but we have a well. That's probably asking a bit much of it. So shit. How DO we fill the motherfucker?

"I think maybe you should check with the fire department."

"Whaaaaaaaaat?" I can just HEAR that phone call in my head! OH MY GOD, I'm gonna be their "shit for brains" story of the day! I mean, they don't hang out at the house to wait for people who need their pools filled, surely! I think they would cuss my ass out if I asked them to trot on by and fill 'er up. I would cuss me out for that.

"Yeah, I think that's who ya call." I began to grow skeptical. Maybe H doesn't want a pool. Maybe he doesn't want to make me cry, so he's pawning me off on the local fire men...

So that was another thing I repetedly tried to look up today. Fuck you, Google! Fuck you right in the ear! I've read how-to guides, owners manuals, "tips"... They all stop just short of where to get the fucking water! SON OF A BITCH! I went to every local water company web site, none of them offer any pool related option. *sob*

And yet, every dilapidated trailer I pass has one in the front yard.

I'm not giving up on you, George! I WILL swimm in your clear, fresh, crystaline waters this year, oh yes I will!

If you happen to know the procedure for this... Please put me out of my mysery. Please?

I Found My Diaphragm!

Not that diaphragm, you dirty bird! I've always been far too put off by the idea of retrieval... And all the ways that could go wrong, terribly, terribly WRONG, like, "Dr... Um... It's still in there." wrong, to use one of those. Ew.

No, the other one. The anatomical one! It only took me 30 years, 11 months and 8 days, but I am SOOOOOOOO EXCITED!

I can't sing. I can warble, I can make my own mother say things like, "You should NEVER do that in public!" or, "Did that sound just come from you?!" it's pretty bad. Which only hurts deep down in my soul. A lot. But that's okay, God. *sniff*

When you are a person who can't sing like *I* can't sing, and someone catches you doing it anyway, you sometimes receive advice on how to maybe make it less blood curdling or skin crawly or brain blowy-uppy. This advice usually contains the sentence, "Try singing from your diaphragm for GOD's SAKE!" and to be honest, usually ends in, "Or not at all. That would probably be best."

Well, I tried. I tried singing from my gut, I tried singing from my heart, I even tried singing from my appendix, which only resulted in those bastards removing it! I tried singing from my naughty place... TWICE! At least the second attempt was fairly quiet. -I don't even think it would have helped if someone had handed me a road map to it. I'm just inept. Sometimes the sound changed, but it was just another layer of "Is this hell? I don't remember dying... But surely I'm in hell."

From time to time I'd be watching a movie or show in which someone was singing, and some brilliant coach or teacher would grab them in the belly, making them go, "whoo-hoo!", and telling them to, "Sing it from HERE!" and I'd tilt my head and poke myself in the belly, go, "whoo-hoo!" and then try to make a sound from way down there... Nothing. Still coming from the throat region. Still sounds like the torture scene from Braveheart. (*spits in Mel Gibson's general direction* That's a story for another day.)

My friends did not believe me, which lead to The Karaoke Episode of '02, in which I sang a Blink 182 song to a room full of Country fans at a shitty bar, dead sober. ON MY BIRTHDAY, and when I tried to make it comedy... They didn't get it. So... There was this angry mob, and well... I never would have escaped if they'd followed rule number one of Angry Mob Prepairedness: "Keep the lighter fluid handy!" My stupid ass friends forgot that I was the designated driver, probably because it's SO WRONG to make The B-day Girl the fucking designated driver, and tried to skip out on me.

I only made them jog along behind the car for a mile or two. Fuckers.

So there has been strife. Is my point.

But yesterday, as I careened down the road all alone with Pearl Jam vibrating my side mirrors (amongst other things...), something totally crazy happened.

I was blowin' out State of Love and Trust, because that's what I do in the car when I'm alone, I blow it the fuck out, and I realized that a bunch of muscles that aren't located in my throat were... Uh... Moving and clenching and doin' stuff! So I started the song over, and there it was, and I almost wrecked because I was so, "YIPPEEEEEEE! There it IS!"

I turned the stereo down a bit so I could hear me, and it still sounds pretty fuckin' fucked up, but still, I found it... And I found something else, too...

When you sing from way down in yo belly... A lot of muscles start twitching... Including the hoo-hah muscles... Which means that while I still cannot sing, I have found a much funner way to do my kegals!

Yay for tight snatch and singing!

The end:D