i obsess.

a public service announcement from lildb.

Dude.  Back up your fricking files.  Do it now.  I know why you haven't, I mean, my excuses are similar, if not exactly the same ones, but they're flimsy and you need to ignore those excuses and back up your writing files, and your photos, and anything else you might wish desperately for if your pc crashes and you are ska-rewed and all those shots you took of your kid's first birthday or whatever are just gone, like you had to run screaming out of your computer 'cause it was on fire and all you could do was grab the LOLcat and a bag full of garbage as you fled.

I love you and this is why I say all of this.  Possibly also because last night my pc crashed HARD and I checked my knickers and, indeed, there were items there that should normally be deposited in the toilet.

Ftr, everything is currently alright, but I'm backing everything up today, after I get some new discs. 

Dude.  Do it. 

You're welcome.

or, you know, okay, i could completely disagree with myself.

I've said so many dumb things in my years playing a human being here on this planet that I'm not surprised to catch myself out having said one more dumb thing.

For instance, I've now switched stances wholeheartedly from what I just posted about ignoring the network media, although not so much about ignoring them, but mainly ignoring the suggestion that McCain's winning because he's no longer having to struggle with another candidate for the nomination, while Barack and Hillary are still in a heated contest.  Rather, what this dude says:

Matchups Against McCain Will Suffer

Expect Clinton to start closing the general election performance gap on Obama, but not necessarily gain on McCain. I have long argued that whoever has the monentum in the primary campaign will always perform better in the general election. For the next several weeks, neither Clinton nor Obama will have momentum in the primary campaign, but McCain probably will. As our campaign gets nastier and remains somewhat inconclusive, there is a good chance McCain will gain on both Clinton and Obama.

I dislike eating my words, because they taste narsty, but I'll do it.  Bleah.

(Mainly, I just DON'T want this to be true! - I don't want to see the Dems infight to the point that we can't win the election in November - we are only hurting ourselves with this crap.  Hill and B DO just need to have a thumb-wrestling match and call it, already.  And we know they won't.  And it makes my head hurt.)

it's like fricking alien v predator around here.

I think J's getting pink eye again - I just wiped the left one with a kleenex and it soaked a whole section (the best indicator of pink eye by far - the copious amounts of goo produced). 

I shouldn't complain, because he's sitting nicely on my lap and even remembering to cover his hacky cough once in a while without being asked.  I think he's motivated to sit so nicely, though, because of things like Turtle Technology.  Which, really, who couldn't use some a' that?  Esp. with those boogy-ing bunnies.

I could.  Turtle, take *me* away?

gone with the schwinn.

I just got off the phone with a customer service rep from the company, Pacific Cycle, the parent company of Schwinn Bicycles, located in Wisconsin.  I wanted information (shhh!  no tellsies!) about a certain red tricycle for a certain small someone for a certain specific upcoming holiday, particularly regarding the materials used in the making of the trike, but also where it's made.  He was, dissatisfyingly, less than prepared for the call.  Which kinda blew my mind.  Has the company not been made aware of the importance of the topic, particularly for parents of young children, kind of a huge block of their potential clientele, I would imagine?  The guy was like, oh, uh, yeah, I, uh, ... while I mashed my head repeatedly on my desk as I listened to him, stammering away.  I just soooo wanted Schwinn to still be a stateside company.  And they're not.  And when I dropped that piece of information on him, about how it would be good if they had a stateside plant, maybe even one IN Wisconsin, that American consumers would be really pleased with that and they'd probably get a lot of media attention AND a horde of new customers, at the end of the call, he was all, oh, yeah, sure, whatever, lady, mind your own beeswax.  I mean, what he said was, "Yes.  Thanks.  Uh-huh.  Goodbye."  I guess I just imagined the part where the phone slammed down on my earbone.  (He didn't technically hang up on me, but I sensed the hurried departing.  I'm highly aware like that.  I've had boyfriends, people.  I've been around the block a few times.  I even stopped in and got some candy at the drugstore on one of those trips.  Yammer.)

Mostly, I was bummed to hear that they comply with the federal standards regarding materials used to create their products in ... Asia (just couldn't say China, couldja, buddy?  well, I'll give you points for having been at least that savvy during our unnerving-for-you conversation, anyway).  I mentioned that those standards are, quite obviously, loooowww, given all the recalls the manufacturers have had to issue for the thousands upon thousands of products in recent times, and he bumped up his statement with, "well, actually, our standards are in line with California's, which are the most stringent."  While I agree that Cali's standards are (currently) the most stringent, I find it interesting that he didn't mention that at the top, when I first asked, because otherwise, it just seems like subterfuge.  If they're really above-board on materials and making a top-quality product, why wouldn't they make that information known and easy to find?  Proclaim it to the skies?  I told him they should have that stuff in an easy-to-access format on their site because people would really appreciate it, consumers are desperate for that stuff right now, and he hedged and hummed some more and fidgeted in his seat, because he was obviously not prepared for my call, because Schwinn is obviously owned by some major ginormous conglomerate who could give a fuck about the impact of their product on the culture, consumer or environmental or otherwise, to which they are regularly bequeathing it.  Which sucks.

Shame on you, Schwinn.  Busted.  (Serious.  Look at their customer care page - yeah.  No information whatsoever about where things are made, materials used, standards applied, nada.  Not even on the FAQ page.  Come on.  That just *screams* that they don't give a rat's patootie.  Sad.)

(And now I have to find a new company, maybe a local one?, oh, that would rule, who can build a trike for my, uh, a little somebody, for a certain holiday.  Maybe not the approximate one, though.  Which is fine with me.  I'm in no hurry.  Good stuff takes time.  And learning how to wait is important and necessary.

Sigh.)

p.s. There are a lot of local bike shops that are locally-owned and operated, like River City Bicycles, and I plan on starting my hunt for a stateside-made trike there.  I'd rather give my money to a local company.  For all the usual reasons.  But if someone around pdx can give me a heads-up about top-secret good trike info, I'll take it.  I will!  I'm cheap like that!  I am.

5 a.m. logic.

After Caleb did the 2 a.m. potty trip with J, the one where he wanted to sit vacantly on the toilet after he'd finished going, for an indefinite period, and Caleb got a little short with him about that desire, I woke blindly at 5 a.m. to the screaming shrew that is our toddler.  I insisted that, with eyes burning and shoulder achy from too much time sitting weird while watching stored-up Scrubs episodes from the last few months last night, not to mention past the old bedtime (whydoIdoitwhy), he'd better go back to sleep, NOW, or I was going to shut his door (the deal we've worked out recently in order to keep him from sobbing after bedtime has finally, adamantly, arrived).  He kept sobbing.  I stumbled toward his room and stayed true to my word, shutting both his door *and* ours.  Nothin' doin'.  He continued screaming.  (This was after we'd already gone through the litany of issues that might have woken him up, with his scratchy-throated, wobbly "noooo" bleated out after each item was asked; "Do you need to go potty?"  "noooo."  "D'you need to change your pants?  Is your bed wet?"  "nOooooOo."  "Are you thirsty?  Do you need a glass of water?"  "NOOOooooOO."  "Is this retro-active payback for what you may require in psychoanalyzation as an adult thanks to our current parenting behaviors?"  "NOooo."  And so on.) 

A few minutes later, as the screaming hoarsely continued, I blurrily reminded Caleb to ignore it.  He was obviously managing that just fine, because he responded in the almost-asleep voice that it was not a problem.  Seconds later:  snore.  You know.  The usual.  Meanwhile, my heart began accelerating its rhythm, because I always get kinda pissy when he can fall asleep so fast and so easy after so much disruption, and because, well, there was the fucking screaming happening, still, so I waited a little longer and then stomped over to the door.  Caleb snapped awake and tried to caution me to be nice.  I was, sorta, if you think of sotto-voce as nice.  I mean, I do, especially at 5 in the morning. 

Anyway, I beligerently tossed his door open, kneeled down next to his little bed, and said, in a nice, quiet voice, "J.  Listen to mommy." 

"Oh." 

"Now, you need to stop crying or later today?  You're going to stay in your room in the morning.  You won't get to go downstairs and play, and you won't get to go in the living room and play with any of the ornaments on the tree, and you'll just stay in here.  That's it.  Nothing else.  Because it's only 5 in the morning.  We're not getting up right now, you're not going to play downstairs right now, it's still the middle of the night.  Time to go back to sleep.  Unless you keep crying.  Then you'll just be in here, with the door shut.  Do you want that?" 

"Blow my nose?" 

"Sure."  And I offered the lower portion of my t-shirt for him to honk good and loud into.  He did it twice.

"Are you all done crying, now?  Should I leave the door open?"

"'Course, mommy.  Leave it open, peese."

"'k.  G'night.  Go back to sleep."

"'Course, mommy."

And I shuffled back to bed, feet cold, stomach colder where the snotty part of the shirt clung to my torso.

Climbed in under the covers, husband already softly snoring again, and thought about how weird it was; that I could be so quasi-mean to my son about his potential punishment, even feeling like it was mean as I proposed it, listening to myself sort of shocked that I could say something so like what I remember hearing about kids being trapped in rooms, all day, every day, fed scraps, clothes unchanged, *abused*.  Granted, I knew that this was simply a proposed extended time-out, and that I didn't really mean it, because I knew, just knew, he'd not call my bluff.  But what if he had?  What if he'd continued to cry, what then?  Would I have insisted angrily on his remaining in his room for the morning?  Is that like jailing a toddler?  And when I know my husband would have most likely balked at my trying to enforce what I'd said (because I try to stick to what I say I'm going to do, for the sake of consistency, even though it's sometimes a little on the, let's face it, batshit-crazy end of the spectrum)?

I'd be lying if I didn't find the whole thing kinda funny, though, as I was drifting back toward pretty, pretty sleep.  I wouldn't have to follow through on the jail-time, and it worked, my threat, and still.  I had a belly coated with snotty goo to attest to my being -- normal?  Tired?  A real parent?

Oh, I know.  Finally done with my hipster phase.

*******

Just re-read this and I can't resist adding that I read between the lines more than the lines themselves, and boy, is it enlightening.  For one thing, it's pretty obvious that J probably didn't give a crap what the content of my lecture was when I went in there, rather, he was happy to have my soft, quiet voice playing close to his ear, getting to blow his nose, receiving the little pat on the back and, finally, a nice blanket readjustment from mom.  He probably didn't even think about what I was saying.

So much for my getting all caught up in that part of it.  gah.  So typical.

of tummy-ache and ginger tea and -- oh, realllly.

I had a vicious tummy-bug (doesn't that sound so much adorable-r than "gastroenteritis") take me down on my birthday, which was Sunday, and I had cute-as-a-button fevers and, while I did no vomiting, my bottom(ing, keeping within the cute theme, 'cause rhyming is cute, it *is*) will not be the same as it was for some time.  And my tummy is sore from all the precious spasms.  Plus I'm sick to death of flavorless food, i.e., dry toast, rice, bananas, and some applesauce thrown in which actually *did* keep things kinda interesting, also, I put (ooooh!) peanut butter on my toast a few times for protein and 'cause I think I might have had to hurl the toast away, with my arm, not my throat, but anyway.  Fun!  Which, shame on me, I shouldn't mock the process, because I blew it on Tuesday night, since, even though I was still in the throes of misery, I ate the delicious, mind-blowingly good fried latkes Caleb made for the first night of Chanukah, and then?  I had seconds.  I'm officially retarded.  No offense to special-needs people.  I'm serious.  They are all smarter than me.  I mean it.  I rate low on the brain-possession scale when I pull such stunts.  Which is why I paid dearly yesterday.  A damnably tepid day on the eating front in my world.  And that is something that pangs me, because food really does = one of the best things in life, I believe.  I'm not exactly a foodie, because I can't cook worth beans (heh) but I likee the eatee part.  Lots.

But my birthday was fine, Caleb and the kid sang the song and the kid helped me blow out the candle on my cupcake, selected from the ones that he and Dad made, so that ruled, and all the people I love called and sent cards and emails and wrote on my facebook wall and stuff.  I'm learning more and more that it's what means the most to me, those people just leaning in through the doorway for a minute and saying, "Hi!  Happy!  Love!"  So.  I'm getting cornier than ever in my wizening age.  Sweet.

Sweet.  Something I'm not, lately.  I'm more just "stress ball of yarn wound tighter than all of the press secretaries for the current presidential administration put together," which almost sounds more exciting than it is.

I've been unable to blog about my parenting, no, wait, let me start over.  I'm unable to blog about my son, more and more, as he gets older, because I'm feeling more and more guilt and frustration and have no idea how to reveal that to people without feeling like I'm doing it wrong, doing it badly, with no redemptive anything, and am so afraid that people will criticize me, or worse, call the authorities and remove my son.  Even though most of my logic says that is just silly, really, silly as can be, there's a teeny part that says, don't give up the goods, bitch.  Don't tell people what you're doing, not in black-and-white, because then the evidence is all there.  Shhhhhh.  If you're gonna be a horrible mother, don't broadcast it, for FUCK'S sake. 

(Hi, Mom [in-law]! *waves*  Don't be horrified by this stuff!  I always pour my soul out on my blog like this!  It's how I manage to keep it from driving me to drink.  Heh.  That was funny.  *pours another cocktail*  That was another joke.  I make a lot of jokes about being an alcoholic/drug-addicted/actor-type-person here.  No worries.  I would never, ever, ever, *ever* become an actor.  So breathe easy.  Wanna shot of tequila?  Damn.  Bottle's empty.  Neversmicnd.)

I wish I could just be honest, like Kristen and Lotta, who do it with humor, panache and pistol-smart talent, because it must be so emotionally cleansing to unload about how things really are as a parent, and I want to do it, but it feels scary, so instead I turn the loaded gun I carry on my own fleshy ghost and shoot, shoot, shoot away.  I'm positively, no, negatively riddled with wounds of my own making at the moment, because I'd rather manage the pain I've caused myself than this messy, unbounded emotional swamp made up of moments where I've done or said something involving my son that I regret.  Regret because I fear.  I fear that he'll be harmed, irreparably, and okay I'm a cliche, I'm the mom that everyone says, don't be silly, we *all* fuck our kids up, I'm just going to pool my money with my friends, like Nora's friend and I had a laugh over this morning at the daycare doorway, because when they're grown up we can pay for group therapy for them (cheaper when you buy in bulk, right?).  I'm not laughing inside, though, and neither is she, neither are any of us.  It's horribly hard, it's horribly scary, I don't want, and neither does anyone else want, our kids to develop scars and permanent wounds that they

can't help but develop or experience and WHY can't I get past that thought of a sudden?  I've done nothing but tell myself that he'll have to run into things and fall off of things and he'll have scars and he'll have experiences and he'll have stories, and I was totally okay with that, I really have been massaging my own back for the last two+ years, convincing myself he'll need these things in order to have a full, rich childhood, but why in the motherFUCKING world did I forget that it applied to the emotional as well as the physical?

Wow.  I've been beating up on MYSELF, beating up on myself because I want to keep him from feeling those beatings, those emotional bruises and scars, and I just. can't. stop. it. from. happening.

He's going to be hurt, scarred even, not necessarily by me, but by life.

Oh.  Oh, but, god, it's one thing to say that what-doesn't-kill-you-makes-you-stronger over and over and OVER to yourself from the time you first hear it as a twenty-three year old until right this second and onward, ever onward, into the misty, gray future over that hill, but SHIT, no, I can't can't I can't let him have to oh, god.

I hate this being a parent so much more than I thought I would.  I hate that he will hurt.  I hate that he's already hurting.  Necessarily so.  Because that's our fucking plight. 

I know.  There's beauty.  There is absolute, stunning, breathtaking beauty and light and joy in this life, and I see it in his face, I hear it in his raspy, sweet voice when he shouts at the sight of lights strung along rooftops and when he spies a bird tunneling skyward, when he smells cookies or bread baking or hears music and, enchanted, dances wildly, hands in fists and a crazed grin on those little-boy cheeks, and I delight in those moments.

Shit.  This shit is hard.  It's so hard.  I love him more than I ever thought possible, and that love makes everything so hard.

Well, at least now I've solved my health riddle.  I think I'm getting an ulcer.

somebody oughtta slap me.

I get not one, not two, but *three* good things in one fell swoop.  This after bearing no deserving mark of any kind, and instead, earning merely a box on the ear.  Or three.  For one thing, I wrote that lame, whine-encrusted post earlier, and now I have brand-new, perfect, hump-able countertops in snow-white (the color is, in fact, named "blizzard") manufactured quartz.  They are, well, they're making me breathless.  And not just because of the epoxy used to adhere their sleekness to the cabinets.  Although that may have something to do with my spinning head, and not just the beauty. 

The second thing was that I screeched more at my poor, sweet puppy-muffin this morning, in a vain attempt to quell my anger over things that are out of reach of my clutching, dried fingers, because she leapt onto my bed while the countertop installers were here and I'd trapped her into our bedroom to keep her from pestering them with her overly-personal greetings (she *is* a dog, but still -- it's rude, the crotch-sniffing, if you're not a dog; people don't like it, and by people, I most certainly mean me).  Afterward, as I was cleaning the surface of the bedcovers with a rolly-tape-thingy one uses to remove dog hair from clothes, and in my case, many, many other random surfaces that are probably not what its intended use is for, not that I'll let that stop me in my endless search-and-destroy mission re: the dog detritus within our living space; I realized that, in terms of her cost-benefit ratio, Ella is mostly all +s, with the only negative being that she sheds enough to build a new planet constructed entirely of her shedded material and it drives my crazy just that much crazier.  Well, and she can be whiny if within 100 yards of a tennis ball, but that's pretty much it.  Otherwise, she's a pet amongst pets, and with the prettiest, softest brown eyes I've ever peered into, and guess what that dollfaced dog did for me, just a few minutes later?  While I tried to vacuum the stairs, but instead encountered a spider bigger than my hand walking, yes, WALKING down the stairs, because it *could*, I suppose, but then.  Oh, my, yes, then.  I summoned SHE.  And she came.  And the spider stopped walking, and froze.  It knew.  And I said to her, Ella?  C'mere, girl!  C'mere, sweetie!  And she wagged, and smiled, and ran up and down the stairs, until I pointed, shaking, at that thing.  And she stopped.   And pointed at it.  Until I said, Ella.  GET.  IT.

And she did.

And I love her.  She is my shining, white dog in furry, shedding armor. 

Do you think eight treats is too many?  Do you think I'll regret my choice to reward her thusly at a later point, say, this evening, when her anal glands begin firing a round of fishy bullets into the air? 

Probably.  But, hell.  Girl-sweet-face deserved it.  I couldn't have done anything but wait for the end of time, or my husband, whichever came first, shivering low in a corner while the spider circled me, ever closer, its fangs dripping.  *ewwwww*

And the third thing.  The thing that has already provided me with much commingled shame and embarrassment, because my ADHD is in full dudgeon today, what with the kitchen stuff all happening, both good and bad, and the spider-attack, and the epoxy-sniffing, and my burgeoning appointment with the therapist where I have to disclose that the medication thing was a bomb, and now we have to talk about it and I have to describe things and finish sentences and try to avoid crying, all on one measly cup of coffee and zero food because that would require my doing dishes in the bathtub and I'm holding out until the dishwasher's installed, tomorrow, and don't look at me like that because you'd do the same thing, and you know this. 

Um.  There was supposed to be a third thing included in that last paragraph, somewhere.  Did it make it in there?  Can anyone else look?  I'm afraid to.  I can't remember quite where I mentioned the part about the spider-attack and I tremble at those words so I can't look back or I'll turn into a salt-lick for spiders to trod upon.

So Jozet gave me this award and I don't deserve it and I lost control of my bowels all over her comments section because I have no control over anything, ever, but especially in the face of being honored by someone so - someone whose abilities defy description, in the better/bigger-than-life category.  So.  I feel bashful and unworthy and thankful. 

And I'll write another post later about who I'm passing the award to, plus the pretty button will be revealed, which will hopefully prompt me to belatedly post the other buttons I've been given in the last few months but I keep forgetting to do it, and I apologize deeply to the givers, for I have dissed thee, please forgive.  Please. 

But first I have to run or I'll be late to my appointment for ADHD, a thing that causes tardiness, among other resulting disastrous effects.

Sweet.

a good poke in the eye sounds preferable.

Read this and try not to weep.  With rage.

And my parents wonder why I cringe when I even hear the name Dobson.  Hypocrite to beat all hypocrites, fostering other, even more callous and blatant-y, hypocrites.  Oy.  It maketh my head wish it would split wide open rather than be forced to recall that I was raised by the man's books.  The ones my parents got for "free," after a gracious "donation" they traded for each of the parcels of supposed wise-parenting manuals, usually around $18 or some such rather high number, considering this happened during the eighties.  I'm betting they paid more for those "free" books than if they'd bought them at the local xtian bookstore.  (The one that I now live rather approximate to, which makes me shiver if I don't cross my eyes when I'm turning past it, and the eye-crossing thing makes for rather unsafe-ish driving, so you can guess at my dilemma.)

Anyway.  I'm funneling my frustration re: the stove not being installed yesterday afternoon, many thanks to incorrect information in the specs given to us by the store we bought the stove from, and confirmed in their tech dept., or, that is, the electrician confirmed it, even though he was pretty convinced the information was incorrect, but went ahead and installed the kind of outlet the specs showed the stove required, because the tech dept. was adamant that the specs were telling the truth (maybe the specs are republican members of the current administration?  also, that's a joke, because, like there are any members of this administration who *aren't* republicans?  oh.  oh, I slay me.  *wipes eyes*).

Um, I'm trying to not be pissed.  But can I tell you how much FUN it is to do dishes in the bathtub for weeks, after having made dinner in a toaster oven?  I know.  I know.  I have NO RIGHT to bitch.  I am getting a B-U-T-ful new kitchen out of the pain-assery that is living sans kitchen and heaping helpings of dust.  Lungfuls of the stuff.  Yum-o.  I should roll with the punches.  I am fully aware of how light this load is; how bad I'm gonna feel after the apocalypse, when nary a toaster oven is to be had, nevermind a nice, clean bathtub to do dishes in.  Or bathe (like I won't be secretly delighted to not have to deal with my bathing phobia - although I'm so contrary I'm sure to, at that instant, want to bathe like I've never wanted anything before).

Ugh.  Don't listen to me, please?  I'm the grossest whiner in the world.  (Especially if you consider the bathing phobia.  That notches it up nicely.)

I have a whine hangover.

i owe you an apology, interwebs.

I just realized that I haven't been trying as hard to compete for your love as I used to, back in the olden days of my youth online, back when I'd shine a sentence (or, more likely, a sentence that resembled a long paragraph) up like a blemishless apple on my striped t-shirt with its tear, a tattoo from that time I clambered over the chain-link fence in the neighbor's yard because we were sneaking into *their* neighbor's yard, the one with the roly-poly apples lying about in the grass, that also happened to possess a dog, generally on a leash, who was not tied up that particular day.  But still, the apple, shiny, and handed over with a grin that lacked a tooth, right up front, and the other front one still only just revealing its brilliant, jagged newness, raring to bite through delicious apples and savory cookies and decadent life.

Um.

Anyway.  I'm sorry.  I've been slutting it up regular, lately, all slap-dash and barely ever a nice image or slice of poem, just my sloppy thoughts and even then only by half.

I promise to try harder.  Do better.  Scroll up and down a little more, previous to bringing my finger down with more emphasis on the publish button than any other portion of my utterances.

********

I went to my very good friend's birthday function last Wednesday, and was trying to disengage myself from a conversation that had somehow arisen, despite my attempt to feign it off, between me and a woman whom I've known for around ten years, yet still cannot seem to convince myself that I am friends with, because her conversational skills are more pushy than friendly, and it always leaves me wishing I could be anywhere but there.  That's really sad, isn't it.  And we were seated at a distance, there was another old acquaintance between us, who is another someone I've never managed to convince myself that I am good friends with, although I had thought we were something like it.  But the topic of conversation between the first woman and myself had fallen into child care (she has two young boys), and though I was desperate to change the subject, before I had the chance to politely redirect it, the friend between us abruptly stood up, and as she did, explained somewhat menacingly that she was, no offense, completely uninterested in the "mommy talk" and would prefer to not be in the middle of it. 

No offense.

Then, of course, after that, I was firmly entrenched in that conversation, the "mommy talk" one, and while I had gone out that evening with the feeling of carefree, just-me-ish-ness that I was once allowed to cloak myself in from sun-up 'til sun-down, or, really, more like a nude feeling that I was unaware of, that carefree nobody-but-me kinda feeling beneath my other vestments of insecurity and goofiness and sexiness and all other kinds of things that I once wore more carefully than my single self required -- I was suddenly quite aware.  I was aware that I was not any longer that single self.  No amount of cosmetic application, no amount of skinny jeans and teal patent secretary stilettos with the cone heels and somewhat-rounded toes and vintage cameo necklaces and vintage white patent clutches and other ironic costume baubles, no amount of fancy-new-coiffe, fresh-from-the-uber-chic-stylist, nor a very trim figure, nor the other sundry bits that made me think, somehow, I'd escaped the appearance of "on-the-town-Mommy" (tm) -- none of it mattered.  I was, to that old acquaintance, someone I now deliberately do not refer to as "friend," only a mommy.

Offense.

Later, I was informed by some young party-attendee-upstart that I would do well to visit his salon and allow him to use some *really great products* in order to avoid such a lot of frizz in my straightening process (I had actually bothered to straighten my hair quite hurriedly that evening, because my stylist had left it wet, against her wishes, as it was raining torrentially and I refused to waste the time to style when it would only 'fro up on me as I ran through the bouncing puddles to where my car was parked, over a block away.  I never straighten anymore, and I particularly avoid it on rainy days, because omigod whatisthefuckingpoint, but I did it that evening due to lack of time and because I wanted to bring the chic thing I was trying to work all the way up to my tippy-top, and not leave it at my forehead, where chic melted into Benji-at-the-park, and seriously, I did not owe that presumptuous little queen an explanation of any sort, particularly when he was trying to convince me that Bumble and Bumble was some kind of unheard-of ode to modernity.  Honey.  I was using Bumble and Bumble while you were learning how to pretend you didn't love pink and purple around the other first-graders.  But thanks for the tip).

After that, some girl who was dressed like a cross between Debbie Harry and Edie Sedgwick wanted to make out with me.  I realized that she was high and/or highly intoxicated, and acknowledged that my husband would probably not relish my explanation of all that extra perfume on my neck, though she didn't seem to appreciate the explanation.  Whatev.  I had bigger, more insulting fish to fry.  When given the chance to shame the old acquaintance who had "mommy-talk"ed me into feeling like the star leper of the evening, I instead aided her further in her quest to make me feel teeny-tiny.  She explained that she'd joined a book club and that there were a few pregnant women in the club, and at one of the latest meetings, the conversation had "dev-," at which point she paused.  Even *she* had the sense to see what kind of uncomplimentary thing that would be to say to someone with a child.  Only, me, I'm that person who loves helping out someone who stumbles mid-sentence.  I always offer a verbal arm of support if I can connect to what word they're trying to say.  I do it in order to help the conversation across the road, to get it seamlessly to the other side, so that the person speaking can continue their speech without losing their place and getting muddled, which is what happens to me when I'm speaking and stumble, I'll often lose my place and then I can't find my way back and I turn lobster-red and take a really big gulp of my drink and shiver into my shoes, while someone else grabs the conversation torch and runs in a different direction altogether and I limp off, looking for the loo.  Anyway.  She allowed me to aid her with her word-hobble, "devolve, yes, it had devolved into a conversation about obstetricians."  With a look that said, you can only *imagine* how bored I had become.  I nodded my head blindly and gulped, feeling lost.  How had I just handed her another hammer to smash down onto my skull?  I felt so utterly stupid.  Then she finished her statement with something about how she'd gone into the kitchen to do the dishes while those irritating mommies conversed about their inane productive systems' fruits.

Offense.  I ought to have been on mine.

How had I done that?  How had I given her the opportunity to make me feel so small -- twice?  Without ever making my own case for existence? 

I don't think I'll try to help her across the road again in any future conversations, though.  I'll be wearing a nice, thick coat of disinterested-chic.  Maybe that will impress her more than the other kind, which didn't seem to do anything but stir up -- ?  A hornet's nest of boorishness. 

Maybe next time, I'll just make out with the first girl who offers.  At least then I won't leave feeling insulted.

like a faucet.

I was just spouting off yesterday.  I need to do it occasionally, so the damn doesn't burst, etc., but I feel better today.  Well, okay, anyway.  J is at my parents' house and that helps, but mostly I just want to finish having to slice deep into my gut and reveal the black memories that dwell therein to my therapist in order for him to add it all up, all the pieces that will help him best determine what kind of pills I can pop that will bandage up the wound I had to slice open in order for him to make that determination and OY.  Well, alright, to be fair, because I'd already sliced it open when we moved, but it was a messy, imprecise cut, less cut and more rend, and this latest one was medically administered with a sterile knife, but after I leave a session of pulling out spaghetti intestines and the blood has spilled anew and I have to somehow shove it all quickly back in and run through the gray rain to my gray car on the gray road and keep it sealed for a week, for another session of poring over the grisly, tar-coated innards, well, I'm not entirely capable of keeping things sealed properly.  I was always that kid who picked at the scabs, pick pick pick, and yesterday, I had not allowed the bandage to adhere cleanly to the wide-openness directly beneath its immaculate surface, I had to peek along the edge.  Just to see, you know, whether it was still there or whatever, and then - hey!  Oh!  Right!  I was raped in high school, and also molested in the eighth grade, which, while I don't count it as my first kiss, it technically was, and then there was Alaska, and god.  I shiver over sharing these things, these scary details, because who wants to see the wreckage?  People want to read blogs to laugh, even at the goriest of news items, we want to see them and shiver darkly and then get a good punch line to lighten the load, and I have no punchline.  Instead, I'm angry, I'm pissed, PISSED at those FUCKERS who have made things so much goddamn harder for me, this life that is already not a simple trot through each day, even for those who have been lucky enough to escape molestation on any level (of whom I am convinced there are but few).  So, I'm angry.  And I share because - you wanna know why?  Because there shouldn't be a ban on talking about having been taken advantage of.  I was stripped of my power in those moments, and -- here's a funny (although not punchline-y, sorry) thing:  when I was a stripper, throughout the entire experience, I recall hearing people say things like, Oh, you know, women who are in the adult entertainment industry have all been molested or raped at some point.  And I was always like, huh.  Well, that makes me an anomaly, doesn't it.  Since I'd somehow managed to completely forget that I was molested *and* raped before I finished high school.  You know why?  I'm gonna tell you that, too!  Because I didn't relate to the textbook definition of molestation or rape.  I thought about those precise, defined specifics, and compared my versions to those, and went, oh, nope!  None a' that here!  And when I shared the stories brokenly to my friends, their blank looks and non-responses or the occasional "Oh." brought me up short, made me think I was over-sharing and frightening people and I should probably just stop telling those stories that frightened people and made them not want to hang out with me.  Shame on me for having told anyone, was all I could feel and think. 

Isn't that all terribly funny?  Funny-weird, I mean.  I know it's not funny.  I don't feel like laughing.  Rather, I feel -- like I don't want to have a daughter.  Because I'll be compelled to tell her what I went through, and though in a perfect, best-case scenario, my explanation is clear and clean and her reception is solid and logical, and she learns from my stories and is careful about where she goes and what she does, but -- dude.  The guys who molested me in the eighth grade?  Were in the middle of a party of kids who were not drunk or stoned or high on anything other than their own selfish agendas and thought the whole thing was funny anyway.  So do I ban my future daughter from attending social functions altogether?  Well, no, but I would hope she would know to push someone away and call attention loudly and clearly to the inappropriate behavior, strong enough and confident enough to know that the molester should be humiliated to attempt such a thing in the midst of a fucking party.

But would she be successful, even then?  What if it didn't matter - what if she were molested anyway? 

How could I live with myself, having not prevented such a thing, and having allowed this precious charge of mine to experience something that has fucked me up like a rake in a hurricane?

Ah.  This is all such a THING, this mess.

SEE why we have to talk about it?  The more it's out there, the more stories we share about our losses of power at different but still important moments in our lives, the more "textbook" definitions there will be available for people to learn from, to see as mirrors or useful comparisons, to watch out for as roadsigns, to draw strength from, to recognize their own experiences as having been something more than a private, shame-filled thing to closet and keep buried.

Let's talk about it.  Talk about it here.  Please.  Don't give it any more power, not just over yourself, but over the future would-be molesters.  Let's use our old pain as a weapon for our kids.

If you don't want to identify yourself, you don't have to.  Be anonymous.  Or email me your story and I'll post it sans name.

This is one way to keep our kids safe.  You see, I'm aware that this could happen to my son, too, whether I ever have a daughter.  I don't want it for him, either.