It was only a dream...

The house is quiet with A gone. I can hang around in my underwear and eat ice cream for dinner if I want to.

I had pasta standing in the kitchen in shorts and a tee shirt, instead.

Afterwards, I sat in a pile of poetry books on the living room floor, wishing for inspiration. Atwood, Giovanni, Neruda, and Rilke kept me company; they are old friends with dog ears and quiet voices. Their honesty and perspective made me yearn for some semblance of creativity.

It's disjointed, this evening. My mind won't follow a path. It meanders from space to space.

So I took my flute from the shelf, and simply held it. I sat for quite a while, thinking and clicking keys. Clicking and thinking. Thinking. Clicking.

I need a focus. My life has begun to meander again.

I covered the embouchure hole with my lips and took a deep breath....remarking how much easier it is to breathe with silver in the hands. Eyes closed, thoughts slowing. Moving air.

Thinking. Clicking.

I can't write, as of late. My process has been suffering for so long. It's empty.

Clicking. Thinking.

It's reflective of my mind. I have been empty.

C minor was the easy choice. The sun was setting, and the room falling into darkness. I curled myself into a corner, turned in, and wrote you a poem.

Keep listening. It's still there.

A few months back, I picked up tickets to see Stone Temple Pilots at Summerfest. They're playing Friday night on the main stage, and I've been all twitterpated about it for weeks.

Tonight?

Yeah, I found out that Seether is playing the same night. I can probably catch the last part of their show after STP is done.

I am so totally going to be deaf next week.

Today, my friends, is A's twelfth birthday.

I baked the most chocolatey cake ever - it's a bittersweet chocolate/pecan meal base, frosted in a semisweet chocolate-butter glaze. Piped on top are mounds of white chocolate buttercream icing. To finish, I drizzled melted white chocolate over it.

He's having a big sleepover party at his dad's house - tons of pizza, video games, movies, and flashlight tag are in store. I'll be there, of course, because dad was terrified of having that many kids in his house without additional adult support ;) It should be a crazy night.

Personally, I'm hoping that if I can stuff enough pizza, cheetos, and cake into them in the first few hours, they'll all be in comas by midnight. Then I can get some sleep before driving A up to my parents' house tomorrow.

The best part, actually, is probably going to be watching dad freak out over all of the kids running around his house. But then again, I'm kind of a wench like that.

This year, I'm switching to Nutraloaf.

You know you want it.

After spending two and a half weeks with his grandparents in southern Illinois, A finally came home today.

My house feels like home again...for a week, at least, before he heads off to visit my parents.

This summer is a challenge, because I'm quite unhappy with the babysitter situation - A is turning 12, and he hates going to her house to hang out with the 'little kids'; and I'm not terribly happy with many of the life choices she's made recently. Truth is, I don't want him there much, either. But at his age, it seems like a futile exercise in humiliation to get him set up at a new babysitter for just a couple of months before school starts back up. He'll be in junior high this fall, and I've promised to let him stay by himself after school at that point.

So he's looking for places to go and things to do over the summer. Several weeks with each set of grandparents, a week of vacation with me, a week with dad, and as much time as he can spend with friends. Unfortunately, that means I'll see very little of him between now and the end of August. I know he enjoys traveling, and it's good for his adventurous little soul, but it's a lot harder on me than I'll publicly admit. When he is gone, my house is too quiet, and my life lacks a certain structure that only parenting can provide me.

Yeah, I'll admit it. I've spent the last two weeks living off of Jamba Juice, instant oatmeal, and Jimmy John's sandwiches. It's nothing to be proud of, but I won't be bothered to cook for just myself.

I plan on soaking up as much of him as I possible can over the next week...and then Saturday night, we're having the big birthday party at his dad's house. I tell you, I love that boy with everything that I have. Just by existing, he's given me all of the reasons I've ever needed to make something of myself and set an example for him to grow into a healthy, productive, loving adult. He's my world.

Not to mention the fact that he's the funniest person I know. We'll consider that a bonus.



A - "Mom, why do you think that Hardee's restaurants are only in the south these days? They used to be everywhere."

Me - "I dunno. Maybe they're just so unhealthy that everyone in the north that ate there died."

A - "Yeah. I bet they all had Hardeetacks."

Me - Groan.

Every Christmas, my mother plays Santa and puts together a 'stocking' for all of the kids and grandkids. I put that in quotes because it's really not a stocking - it's a gift bag that she leaves outside of the bedroom doors on the morning we're going to celebrate (which may or may not be Christmas Day). The bags contain all kinds of small household things (toothpaste, hair pretties for the girls, travel kleenex, and the like), candy, puzzle books, and toys. It's my mom's way of being...well...a mom.

This past Christmas, much to my surprise, I opened my stocking to find two boxes of -

pantyhose.

L'eggs off-black, reinforced toe, control-top pantyhose.

I didn't have the heart to tell my mom that I'd given those up like a bad crack habit years ago. I made the move to garter belt and stockings. I don't have to list the reasons why. You know them all.

Let it suffice to say that I cringe now every time I think of stuffing my crotch into something that refuses to let it breathe. The girly bits have grown accustomed to a sort of freedom, you know?

So yesterday, I had an event to attend - a cocktail party in the city for a group that works with the homeless. As I was packing a bag to bring to work so I could change on the way there, I had a novel idea. Instead of laundering my last pair of snag-free stockings or stopping to buy a spare pair, I'd wear the pantyhose. How bad could it really be, right?

Wrong. I changed in the ladies' room at the office, and was horrified at the fact that my mother seems to have forgotten that I've lost a lot of weight. She had purchased size B - which I believe is shorthand for big. I put them on, and pulled them up.

and up.

and up.

to about four inches below my bra.

I felt like the creepy, dumpy woman with cankles who wears the big brown pants and snowman sweaters to work six months out of the year. It was utterly demoralizing.

I slipped on my pretty little black dress, cute pointy shoes, and tasteful jewelry. I then proceeded to waddle out of the building like a beached manatee. I got in the car, drove into the city, and told myself over and over, "feel pretty. feel pretty. feel pretty. no one can see your control-toppy goodness. You are going home alone. just feel pretty."

It would have been amusing, had I not felt horrendously ugly.

At the event, I slunk off to the restroom approximately every 37 minutes. I had to adjust, pull up the sagging ankles, and yell at myself for leaving the pretty lace garter belt in a drawer. It just wasn't right. I could hear it crying in loneliness from 40 miles away.

Perhaps it was my strange mindset, or the death grip of the reinforced-toe monstrosities, but I found the entire evening to be a bit surreal. I suppose it didn't help when a woman from the facility, who is obviously used to dealing more with the homeless than business people, started calling everyone over for the auction.

"Hey! Everybody get down here! It's time for the auction! Move down to this end of the hall now, you hear? I want everyone down here now - no excuses!"

I chuckled quietly, but was cut short in amazement at her next proclamation.

"HEY! You people down at the other end of the room at that mashed potato bar, get the FUCK away from the mashed potatoes!"

My friend Lynn and I turned to each other, jaws dropping open. It's not often you find yourself at a cocktail fundraiser where you're told to get the fuck away from anything, really.

Alas, I left the potatoes alone. I didn't think I could handle her wrath in the befuddled state in which I was operating. Unless, that is, I removed my pantyhose and strangled her with them.

Afterwards, I meandered the few blocks back to my car. I think my crotch was squeaking. I prayed for a quick, painless death.

As soon as I got in the car, I shimmied up my dress, yanked down the off-black ugliness, and fished a pair of conveniently-located sandals out of the back seat. As I approached the gate to exit the parking lot, I tied them in about 11 knots, made a freakish ball out of them, and tossed them out the window into a garbage can. Two men jogging by looked at me as if I had just landed from Mars.

I smiled sweetly at them and drove away.

The girl bits rejoiced, and we all lived happily ever after.

The end.

I'm trying to think of a clever, witty spin to put on all of the bad things that have happened this past week.

It's not working.

If anyone had any ideas on how to make the following things funny, throw them out there.

• Carpenter ants living in my house
  
• A flooded, mildew-stench filled basement
• Cleaning out gutters on a metal stepladder at 6 am on a Sunday morning during a thunderstorm
• A 14 hour day in South Bend, IN
• Watching a friend with a 20% chance of surviving cancer as he naps on your couch
• Having the bottom of an extension ladder upon which you're standing to paint a cathedral ceiling slide several feet across the floor, nearly hurtling you 20 feet down face-first into the ground (and considering yourself lucky that you ended up only beating the shit out of yourself against the ladder, bruised and bloody as you end up at a 45 degree hoping someone comes to hold it steady before you fall the rest of the way)
• Being so sore and covered in bumps and bruises that you seriously consider canceling uber-cool plans for Monday
  
• A kid who has been off on vacation visiting grandma that loves you very much, but is having so much fun that he's only talked to you for a grand total of 5 minutes in the last week and a half
• Making (above-referenced uber-cool) plans to play hooky on Monday to do something wonderfabulsome, looking forward to it all week long like it's your last hope of sanity, and then having it fall apart at 12:30 Sunday night
• Having a 400 pound gorilla sitting on your chest at 2am, not being able to sleep, and knowing that you now have to be up for work in three and a half hours because the aforementioned plans canceled

Come on, people. Help me out here. I need to make this funny. There has to be a way.

If anyone posts a comment along the lines of, "Aw, I'm sorry you had a shitty week. Hope it gets better soon!" I will come rip your arms off and beat you with them.

Funny, damn it. Make me laugh.

I need funny.

I had an illicit romp with an old love this morning.

Today is my boss' birthday. I was out late last night, and hadn't had a chance to bake anything for him, so I stopped at a great little bakery in Arlington Heights on my way to work. I walked in the door, took a number, and was standing in line for my apple-cheese coffee cake when I saw him there, watching me.

He was sitting quietly behind the glass, hanging out with his friends and enjoying the warmth of the lights. He hadn't changed in years, and he looked good enough to eat.

He, of course, was a chocolate-iced cake donut.

My breath caught, and I knew that I could not resist his charms. I had to have him, then and there.

This torrid affair all started when I was a little girl. Sometimes on Saturday mornings, my uncle Tim would swing by to pick me (and/or my sister) up and take us out for a few hours. He drove a big green Ford that we nicknamed The Green Machine, and I remember sitting in the back seat, listening to Supertramp, and tooling around to all of his favorite spots. Sometimes, we would go to the Texan restaurant and order pancakes. Other times, we swung past Spatz's bakery and picked up fresh-baked bread and brought it to his house to make toast with peanut butter and jelly.

The best, though, was when we would drop in at Provenzano's grocery. It was a little corner market, complete with butcher shop and deli, on the west side of Saginaw where everyone knew Tim by name. It was a little slice of Americana that I will never forget.

Just inside the front door, in the window facing the street, Mr. Provenzano had placed a huge machine, which came to life every morning long before the store opened. This magical contraption made, much to the delight of my sister and me, the world's most perfect cake donuts.

At one end, the man who was running the cash register would place a huge pile of dough into a contraption that would cut it into rings and deposit it into a veritable river of (most likely highly saturated) fat. The young donuts would swirl around, get flipped over at just the right time, and then come out the other side to be deposited on a grated conveyor belt to cool. After a few minutes, when they were still just barely too warm to touch, a thick layer of chocolate frosting would be dripped over the entire mess...and within moments, we would have the world's best sticky warm donuts in our chubby little hands.

In the car on the way home, we would lick our fingers and proclaim Tim the best uncle that ever was. Life just didn't get any better.

Later, when I got married and moved to Joliet, we lived two blocks from what may have been the world's best donut shop. When the weather was right, you could smell the place from our big Victorian front porch. Mark and I would take A down the street in his stroller, pop in for an apple fritter, and congratulate ourselves for choosing the perfect location to settle our little family.

But alas, all good things do come to an end. Somewhere around 2002, it occurred to me that too many years of indulging in the sweet love of donuts (and other delightful treats) had taken far too great a toll on my waistline. It was time to break off the relationship. Donuts and I were through.

Like any addict, I have fallen off the wagon every now and again. When I find myself in Joliet on business, my car sometimes exercises its own free will and hijacks me to the donut shop parking lot. Of course, at that point, I have no choice but to answer the call and guiltily devour a delicious cruller. I'm only human, after all.

But as a general rule, when someone offers me one of the tasty pieces of evil, I will polite decline with, "Thanks, but I gave those up forty pounds ago." I can hear them crying as they are carted away.

This morning, though, when I saw him in his neat little case, I could not say no to him, my old flame. He called, and I answered. When my number came up on the little board, I said to the nice old lady, "I'd like an apple-cheese coffee cake and a chocolate-iced cake donut, please."

She smiled knowingly. The coffee cake was wrapped in one large wax paper bag, and the donut in another, smaller bag. I paid her $8.27, and I stepped quickly out to my car. As I slipped into the driver's seat, I pulled the beautiful boy out, looked fondly upon him, and took a huge, incredibly un-ladylike bite.

He wasn't as good as he used to be thirty years ago. Of course, neither am I. But we sat there together, enjoying the moment as only lovers can. When I was finished, I started the car and headed to the office.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I licked the last of the chocolate icing from my fingers. Then I wiped them on a napkin I found in the glove compartment, picked up my iPod, and put on some Supertramp. I sang along loudly, poorly, and with great abandon.

Later, I called my uncle. As I recounted the events of the morning, he began to laugh. "You'll never guess what I had for breakfast this morning," he said.

It turns out that even though Provenzano's is long gone, they sold the donut machine to a little place on the other side of town when they closed. Tim had gone over to the east side and gotten himself a warm chocolate-iced cake donut.

For a moment, before I tackled the catastrophe that was my desk, I was a happy, chubby six year-old with a belly full of sugary goodness.

Everyone should have a moment like that every now and again, regardless of their will to fight the addiction. Sometimes, the view from the ground beside the wagon is mighty fine.

Yesterday afternoon, as I was bringing in groceries from the car, I was startled as a little gray mouse skittered across the floor of the garage. He stopped, twitched his nose for a moment, and then scampered off to a quiet corner where I could not thwack him with a shovel if I tried.

As if I would thwack him. You know better.

I stood for a moment, contemplating what to do, when it occurred to me that I was just going to let him live a peaceful life in the corner of the garage. Stupid, you say? Ridiculously girly? I think not. I decided then and there that not only would allowing him to live help my karma, but also that enough time has passed that the trauma of the mouse incident can now be told.

You see, he (she/it) is just a little mouse. There is nothing in the garage that I worry greatly about him eating, and he deserves a safe little haven in which to live out his furry little life.

Others have not been so lucky.

There was, to be honest, the cute little mouse dude I found in the basement a few years ago. I couldn't thwack him, either, but the truth is that I was likely more afraid of him than he was of me. After several minutes of dancing around the family room area squealing and wondering what to do, I managed to scoop him up in a box and toss him out the front door. After my heart stopped racing and I started breathing again, I felt pretty good about myself for having spared his life.

But.

But.

Then came Mickey and Goofy.

When poor Stuart the gerbil died, I told A he could get a new pet. We went to Petsmart, and spent what felt like hours looking around at all of the fuzzy creatures in the cages. He decided he wanted a mouse. And since they were so small, couldn't he get two? It would be so nice for them to have a friend to hang out with when he wasn't home, blah blah blah.

I gave in. The barely post-pubescent boy working the rodent area assured us that it was a good idea - since they were all from the same litter, they would be great together and live longer for the companionship they found in each other.

Great. Just what I needed. Mice that lived longer.

But we brought them home, set them up in their cage, and A was happy. He played with them, let them crawl all over him while he was watching tv, and showed them off to his friends. Everyone was happy. Except me, because they smelled awful, but that's another story.

A few weeks later, A came to me, a bit concerned. "Goofy keeps chasing Mickey around the cage. I don't think he likes him very much." I wasn't sure what to make of this. I hoped to God that Mickey wasn't a little girl mouse, stuck in with the boys...baby mice would be enough to put me over the edge. A decided he was going to keep an eye on them and see what happened.

Well. Something happened, alright. A couple of evenings later, I heard the wail that makes every mother in the world drop whatever is in her hands and run for dear life to wherever it is that the sound is coming from. Like dolphin radar, I zoomed in on A's room and made it up the stairs in about four steps as I was hearing it.

"Mooooooooooooooooooooooooooommmm!!!"

When I arrived, A was sitting on the floor in front of the cage. A look of great horror masked his little face. "What? What's wrong?" I gasped.

"Goofy."

"Ate."

"Mickey's."

"Head."

"Off."

Time stopped for a moment. I was having difficulty comprehending the reality of the situation. I was stunned into Seinfeldian stupor.

"Ate it?"

A nodded.

"Off?"

He nodded again, tears falling down his cheeks.

"Ate?"

More nodding.

"Off."

Head dropped to chest.

"Wow."

I tiptoed over, suddenly afraid of the evil mouse monster that could show such cruelty. I peeked in the cage, where Goofy was cowering in a corner. I glanced to the other end, and sure enough, there was the headless body of Mickey, laying in a pile of bedding.

No, I didn't quite vomit.

But I had to clean it up. It was almost more than I could stand. I tentatively reached in, pulled out the murderer, and tossed him unceremoniously into the exercise ball. "Watch him." I said to A. Then I took the entire cage down to the garage, where I dumped the contents into the garbage can. Thinking quickly, I pulled a box off of the shelf, threw some of the bedding into it, and sealed it with duct tape. A could believe that I picked Mickey out and put him in there. We would have a funeral later.

For weeks, A contemplated what to do about Goofy. We considered bringing him back to Petsmart, but they claimed they would not take him back. We thought about letting him go, but after I told A that it was a natural dominant instinct that lead him to kill,he felt bad for him. He ended up staying, and A eventually forgave him for the transgression (as boys will do, I suppose).

Fast forward about two years later.

Goofy was getting old. And by old, I mean utterly disgusting. The tip of his tail was turning black, he had scratched all of the fur off of his face, and he looked like a zombie mouse creature from beyond the grave. When he started to bleed around his eyes, I decided enough was enough. It was time to send him to meet his maker. And his murdered brother.

This, of course, posed a problem. What does one do with a pet mouse that needs to die? I did what any woman would do. I called the boy's father.

"Goofy needs to die," I said.

After a long pause, he asked what the hell I was talking about. Since he was planning to come over later that evening to pick A up, I intended to drop the problem into his lap and be done with it. After all, he's a man, right?

Kind of.

"Oh, God," he said. "I still haven't recovered from the angel fish."

I rolled my eyes. I vaguely remembered back in 1995, when we took down the aquarium. There was one giant angel fish that hadn't died, and we'd done something to get rid of it. I couldn't remember what. I scoffed at him.

"Don't you remember?!" He exclaimed.

"No, what did we do?"

"We flushed it!!" he nearly squeaked.

I remembered then. It had been bad. But nothing was going to beat this.

The two of us spent about a half hour on the phone, searching the internet for humane ways to kill mice. I called a vet. I was told it would cost $90 to have them take care of it. This was simply not an option.

Since A refused to accept letting him go outside (it was about 10 degrees out there), whacking him in a pillow case (okay, I wouldn't let that happen, either), or any other easy, quick kill method, it was determined that the only way to accomplish the dirty deed with the least guilt possible was to use the method described in a website that dad found. We would create a miniature gas chamber filled with carbon dioxide by combining baking soda and vinegar, and send him off into a nice, peaceful sleep from which he would never awaken.

The bitch of it?

When dad came to pick him up, the two of them decided it was best for A not to be there when it happened. They rushed out of the house before I could protest (much), wished me luck, and disappeared into the night.

There I was. Standing in the kitchen with a box of baking soda, a bottle of vinegar, an already half-dead mouse, and a set of plastic bowls. Those bastards had completely weaseled out of everything. I was stuck.

I couldn't make this shit up if I tried, you know.

I sat at the kitchen table for several minutes, wondering how I'd gotten myself into this mess. Why didn't I just force the men to take care of it? Isn't that what men do? What do I keep them around for, anyway? Why couldn't I be one of those women who can turn on the waterworks on a moment's notice in order to get her way?

I thought about just letting him go outside. I contemplated moving out of the house then and there so I didn't have to deal with it. I also thought about mailing the damn thing back to dad.

But in the end, I placed a small plastic bowl inside of the larger bowl. I set Goofy inside the larger bowl, too. I filled the small bowl with baking soda, then poured an entire bottle of vinegar into it. In a flash, I covered the big bowl with the lid.

I stood there listening. I heard tiny claws clicking against the bottom of the bowl as Goofy walked around a bit. More clicking, a bit of rustling, and then it grew quiet. I waited. Another click.

Then nothing.

I had killed the mouse.

Without opening the bowl, I gingerly picked it up, walked carefully to the garage to avoid sloshing god-knows-what around, and deposited the thing into the garbage can. There would be no funeral this time.

Then I promptly left the house to go play cards at M's house. I wasn't about to be haunted for the evening.

On my way there, I called the boys and told them the deed was done. A never asked about it again. I never brought it up. The guilt consumed me...this wasn't like squishing a spider (which is bad enough, really) or accidentally running over a little frog with my car. I had become a cold-blooded, calculated killer.

I couldn't even blog about it. That's how bad it was.

Until yesterday, when I saw the cute little guy in the garage. Knowing my house, he will die a horrible, painful death on his own...it's just a matter of time. But I will not set a trap. I will not put out poison. I will let fate hold him in its hands, and I will step away.

I will not have more mousy blood on my hands, I swear to you.

So yes, call me a murderer. Call me a heartless bitch. But know that yesterday, I let one little mouse live.

May God save my soul.

My friend isn't coming to visit this weekend, after all.

I am sad.

I have a little boy who wants to take me out on a date.

No, not my A.

A 19 year-old who thinks I'm "kinda hot, in an experienced kind of way."

I'm not sure if I should slap him or send him home to his mommy to be spanked and sequestered to his room full of action figures.

What kind of 19 year-old wants to go out with a 35 year-old who is...well....technically old enough to be his mom? I'm grossed out on so many levels.

Where do these people come from?!

It's been a tough last week or two...I've been pretty busy, and not feeling my best. Luckily for me, my friend (and frequent commenter here) ms whirledpeas is coming to visit for the weekend. It should be a blast :)

Last night, as I was driving A down to the middle of nowhere to spend a few weeks with his grandparents, it occurred to me that he's entering what may be the toughest time of his life. He finished sixth grade earlier this week - and is going into junior high this fall.

To be honest, I have a very strange memory. There are some important things I remember in vivid detail, and others people will bring up which I have forgotten completely. To go off on a tangent for a moment, it seems many of those forgotten moments come from the years I was married - for some reason, Mark will often mention things of which I have no memory whatsoever, and I feel almost as if I'm betraying him by staring blankly while he explains until I have enough detail to put the pieces together.

One thing I do remember, though, is that junior high sucked. I have crystal clear memories of how stupid kids are in the 12-14 age bracket. All of those hormones, the newly-discovered independence, and the struggle to manage all of the changes as they happen are enough to make you crazy. Remind me over the next couple of years when I'm on the verge of killing him, if you will, that all of this is much harder on him than it is on me.

Or send alcohol. One of the two.

Breathe.

I AM breathing.

Not like that, you stupid twat. Breathe like you mean it. Diaphragm deep.

It hurts.

I don't care. Do it.

And so I did. It was 5:48 am, and my alarm had just gone off. I awoke from the night's fitful sleep to the feeling that there was a horse standing on my chest. The pain and pressure, directly above my left breast, were excruciating. I turned to lay flat on my back, and stretched my neck and shoulders. It didn't help.

So I breathed. Slow, deep, shuddering breaths, one after the other. After twenty minutes or so, it had subsided to a dull ache. I got out of bed, took four advil, and started my day.

A friend of mine is compiling a book of short stories. The guidelines include the following:

"Undercover – confessions of our secret lives" is a collection of true stories in which people disclose something about themselves that you would never believe if you only met them casually.

I am looking for stories of between 3000 and 6000 words. But these are just numbers – don’t be constrained by them. If it only takes 1500 words to sketch a story that grips me with its honesty, you’re in the running. If it takes 7000 to paint a word picture complete with poignant details and I get lost in the flow of its candour, you’re in as well.

Think laterally. A secret or a secret life can certainly be about some hidden sexual depravity but it is just as likely not to be. Maybe it’s a hidden innocence instead – for instance, I’d love to hear from someone who has a happily sexless marriage by choice. It could be the criminal past of someone who is now totally square or a manslaughter conviction that sent a straight citizen to prison.

I have so many secrets I could write about. A few of you know some of them. I have spent the last several days trying to decide what I wanted to explore, but each seemed so empty...so ordinary. I started with the dark, horrible secrets, then moved on to the very sweet ones. In the end, I came to the decision that the only one worth writing is the one that no one knows.

It will be entitled, "November 2nd, 2014".

I'll make you a deal. If it's published, I'll post it here.