i obsess.

the no-one-cares post, edition 308.

I hate blogging.  I love the community, but I hate the blogging part.

I'm psyched about SF, but I'm completely terrified that, even though everyone has basically already witnessed me handing myself my own ass via the dancing solo mio at the first social function of last year's conference, at a bar where there was no dance floor, and yes, I'm aware that "basically" is crap and constitutes English-abuse, I will manage to somehow further disappoint everyone and only be able to grunt monosyllabically this time around, and everyone will say, wow.  She can't write AND she's a fucking boor/bore/halitosis-riddled drunken hot tranny mess w/excruciatingly overblown sense of fashion that has no basis in reality whatsoever (take yr pick).

What I *really* want to know is, when do we get to all just begin communicating telephathically and BASTA with this writing-it-all-down shit?

*taps nails, twists hair around boring (aka left) hand's index finger*

a lady of very small brain.

I just ate some of the cookies I made yesterday (and no, Gwen, I did *not* eat any lunch yesterday, either, just cookies, so I felt kind of hollow and light-headed toward the end of the day, especially after gulping down two glasses of Andrew Rich's decadent white table wine - tabula rasa - screw top!, double points!). 

I chased the cookies down with a more-than-half-full (ha!  see?  optimist) glass of coldy-cold milk, something I almost never allow myself since Jack started drinking it, because I save it for him.  Almost unconsciously do I do this.  Same goes for fresh fruit.  I buy loads of it, the expensive, local, organic kind, and Caleb and I give it to him.  Once in awhile, one of us eats an apple or something, but mostly Jack has been granted quasi-sole proprietorship of the bounties of the fruit bowl.  I'd try to be sad about it, but my deep mother-longing to see him eat well and thrive stubbornly resists such silly emotional play.  I figure, hey, he's already eating me, eating my knowledge, eating my energy, eating my spirit, and don't think for a minute I don't give it freely and with a full, amply extended will and heart, because, oh, hell, do I ever. 

Just - it's a little strange, sometimes, staring into the blur of the chrome edging of the butcher's counter, catching a glimpse of the wizening skin 'round my eyes, my eyes are my best feature, btw (or so I've been told - who really knows, as to *facts*), so yes, it pains a little, this best-feature aspect being surrounded by increasingly fragile, ever-thinning cobwebs of tissues, that will eventually be the thing people point to when I am eighty and whisper, look, you can see that she once had lovely eyes, though now they are rheumy and wistful, their whispers like whiskers that flick past my ears of knowingness and beyond, into the darkening room at my back, and I will see into their futures and their also-wizening eyes and years and comprehend that they will see a similar view - I know all of these things as I recognize a watery, vague reflection of myself, this slowly-quickening age, in the butcher's chrome-edged counter.  I stare at the bottles of wine in boxes at my feet, still hip-shod, for how long who knows but today they rock something the kids still recognize and so I am stay'd my fate for a moment.

This morning, before I took Jack to his daycare, I was emptying the filter on the vacuum cleaner and singing The Lady is a Tramp (while he badgered me to sing Heavenly, something I've lately begun crooning to him before bed, and it's his current favorite on the mommy top hits-list).  As I knocked the filter against the edge of the garbage can, the big one just outside the door of the garage, singing the last line with a big finish, along the lines of my own persistent tradition, "that's why the lady! is! a! traaaamp!," he repeated, "that's why the lady is trapped?, is that right mommy?"

I nodded.  Yes.  Yes, honey, she is trapped.  The lady is trapped.

She may wrestle in its cloying tangle, but she was ensnared willingly, and remains so.  Willing.

I gave him a smacky, loud kiss on the head, and we went back into the house.

what it's like when you have a disability but can't get assistance because you forget to call because of the disability:

I'm on hold but it's already afterhours for the mental health triage for Kaiser and I have a feeling I should've tried to call maybe slightly earlier than I did, which was, hilariously, right at five o' clock.  You know.  Quittin' time.  So, basically, I nailed la hora solid.

What I want to know is this:  after I get the help I need, and b'lieve you me, I need it, N.E.E.D., should I write a book about my ADHD experiences?  Now don't you all (hee!  I said "you all," like there are more than three of you reading) kiss my ass and say, sure, honey, you should do it!, sure's shootin', don't just blow a bunch of hot air at me; tell me if you think there might be someone who would benefit from my semi-horrific collection of disarranged, colossally messy life puzzle pieces, none of which fit together in any coherent fashion.

Or, conversely, tell me if you think that, oh, poor dear, she really *is* a big, sodden, ridiculous mess (and please take note of my having deliberately NOT described myself as a fierce, hot tranny mess, b/c I am simply not that interesting anymore, people), and she just needs to find somewhere quiet where she can whisper to herself and rock out in her kewl granny chair.

Book?  Or whispery chair scenario?

It all starts here, people.  IT. ALL. STARTS. HERE.  (It also all falls out of my ear, or ass, depending on your pov, or maybe quite possibly where you're standing, in which case, I apologize and -- you're right.  Absolutely no more beans/beer at the same time.  Scout's honor.)

Dweedle deedle dee!

Feminist. Mother. ADHD-Afflicted. Lurid-Past-Possessing. What Does It All Add Up To?

I don't know.  I've been trying to do the math on just what my problem was for so long (and finally got the sum worked out; for those of you following for the last few years, you know it's that I was diagnosed as having ADHD, much to my simultaneous relief/chagrin), but the complex self-interrogation left me incapable of dealing with larger-picture stuff like politics, gender issues, racism, and the like. 

One of my fellow MOMocrats referenced this (really thought-provoking) article on Senator Clinton and Fourth-Wave Feminism today in an email.  I read the whole thing and was challenged by it at several points throughout the piece; I encourage you to read it and consider just where you think you may be as a woman in our culture.

I want to break it all down right this minute, but -- wouldn't you know it? -- life, my life, as a mother and partner and household manager and small-business helm-er are all summoning me away from the writing of these things. 

I'll still be musing about them, though, and not just today; no, these are the issues that I turn over in my mind on a regular basis.  They are a part of me.  And I want to understand.  Because I want to be a part of the solution, a part of the process that moves us forward and away from the stagnation of negativity, of gender bias and race bias and people bias.

So I guess this is sort of a to-be-continued piece.  Feel free to do some of your own analyzation on the matter and link back, and either email me or leave a comment about your posts so I can update this one with your links.  This conversation *does* need to be had - much like the one Senator Barack has begun on race.  It's all timely as hell, isn't it?

And I'm energized.  Ready.  Let's do this.

the current dem candidacy smackdown, as viewed through the lense of an ex-stripper.

Back in the dark ages when I was, indeed, a stripper - and I happened to be one for several years, so it wasn't as though I just dabbled; I know from whence I speak - I encountered loads of conflict.  From every arena, in every gender-on-gender way.  I saw men fight men; once, when Jay, my best gay boyfriend, drove me to work for an evening shift, he kind of didn't really want me to go in because right before I got out of the car, we watched a stream of dudes exiting the rear of the building, the first of whom was badly bloodied from face to groin.  The second was carrying aloft what appeared to be a javelin, but was, in fact, I kind of remember, a closet pole dowel thingy (you love me for my scientific specificity, huh).  The first guy had evidently stabbed some dude, boyfriend to one of the other dancers, and then got walloped by some yokels.  It was dumb.  Another friend of ours, along for the ride, happened to be an EMT and was all, "do you think I should *gulp* go in?"  I said, sure, yeah, alrighty.  The subtext of that statement was YES PLEASE DO NOT MAKE ME GO IN THERE ON MY OWN.  It ended up fine, and I danced the night away to fun tunes like "Rock and Roll All Night (and Party Every Day)" - it has been my humble opinion for the last few years that the title of that song ought to be altered to "Walk and Crawl All Night, and Potty Every Day," but then, I'm the mother to a toddler who has lately made me want to chew through my chains and bolt.  But that's just this week.

Women Who Weld Together, uh, Support Their Families.

Here's a project that could certainly be looked to as a model to expand upon with the new, Democratic administration that takes the reins come January of '09. (I refuse to acknowledge any other potential outcome.  I'm blithely optimistic like that.)

A quote from Melissa Kutz, one of the participants in the project:

“I spent a lot of years trying to figure out what to do, how to make things work, and after a while you reach a point where you’re completely hopeless,” Ms. Kutz said recently at Climb Wyoming’s training center. It is a barracks-like building at Laramie County Community College, where workstations are a jumble of computers, blowtorches, copper pipe and circuit boards.

“You hear it all: ‘You’re white trash. You’re a welfare mom. Why’d you have kids if you can’t feed them?’ ” Ms. Kutz said. “But I just have never been as hopeful as I have in the past few weeks.”

This isn't a national issue; it's our conjoined human plight.  But we've gotta start somewhere.  I think it's precisely the kind of thing that our Dem nominee ought to be encouraged to broaden and develop in the coming years, if we're going to breathe new life into the idea of the American Dream - the one everyone gets to participate in.

Cross-posted at MOMocrats.

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.)

look, i'm sorry. really.

I know.  I said I was quitting. 

And - I meant it!  I did!  I don't say these things idly, just to dance the feathery toy and see who will bat at it with vigor.  I want to quit.  STILL.  But I'm - I'm just no GOOD at it.  Do you want to know how long it took me to quit smoking cigarettes?  It took me, no fooling, ten years, and that was the *wind-down*.  I started saying I was quitting when I was twenty-four.  I then went off and on until -- wait.  When *was* the last time I smoked?  Well, I don't remember, but don't get all huffy with me.  My point is still the same.  I suck the BIGGEST, nastiest, ugliest, wrinkliest, uh, yeah.  I was gonna try to emphasize how much I suck by saying the thing that most easily comes to mind after saying the words "I suck," but then I chickened out just there at the last split second.  You would have, too, if you knew your MIL read your blog occasionally.  I should go wash my brain out with soap.

Anyway.  I suck at quitting. 

So don't you look all smirky and self-satisfied, when you see I've once again written an entry, that I said I was quitting, and I lied, and now my word has been worn even *more* paper-thin than it was prior to that statement, my word is beginning to resemble fishnet stockings, which is kind of hot, so maybe I LIKE coming off cried-wolfish, you know, trampy-wolfish-fishnet-untrustworthy red-lipped-come-hither-go-away-get-back-here no-actually-go-the-fuck-away-you-louse, not YOU internet babe, just the pretend louses, the ones that still hang about in the gray shadows *beneath* the treehouse where my brain lives, because oh my GOD how many times I've said it, in reference to just about everything under the sun, and meant it, meant it like I've never meant anything ever before in my entire, sad, miserable, bloody life, ooh!, that reminds me of something *else* I want to write about, but - *ahem*.  I meant it, I still mean it, I just -- I can't.

*hangs head in bleak shame*

It's this weird thing I'm tangling with right now; this whole understanding I've been trying to grapple with since the ADHD diagnosis/confirmation.  I finally put together that I have, for as long as I can remember, always done the opposite of what I say I'm going to do.  Which was really horrible for situations like, say, church, where during Wednesday prayer meetings, we would sit quietly and discuss sinful stuff with one another, and open up about things we were struggling with.  The whole idea was this: to put it out there, to confess to it amongst the group, to have others to be accountable to.  Accountability.  It was this huge, big thing.  So that's kind of my first important memory of deliberately breaking the accountability clause; that is, the moment I'd confess it, stating that I would never want to do that thing, in the very next moment, I'd LONG to do it.  Or long to not do it.  Whichever was apropos.

But I know I didn't begin the habit there; I recall my mother helping me with selecting clothes by saying, "Well, I know whichever one I point to, you're just going to choose the opposite."  (She didn't *say* harrumph afterward, but she looked it.  Strongly.)  That started happening regularly when I was -- prior to my being an adolescent?  I think.  I don't know.  It's foggy up in here in the treehouse in my head where my brain likes to hang out.

I'm a rebel.  For no good, apparent reason that I can suss out.  I've tried - I've laid awake for hours, those horrid, middle-of-the-night anguished hours, trying to do the math.  I've even punched with my index finger at an imagined calculator in a mad, scrambled, exhausted attempt to arithmetically resolve this giant conUNdrum of stupidity that dwells in the treehouse between my two still-clogged ears. 

I say I'm going to do something.  I mean business.  The very next moment, I want nothing to do with that idea - I want to run, shouting, yelling, away, away!, and never think of it again.   And I kind of do it, too.  I mean, sans the ridiculous banshee behavior.  I do it internally.  I pretend I never was going to do that thing, I pretend it doesn't freaking exist.  *What* idea?  What in tarnation are you TALKING about?  Never heard of it.  Nope.  Nu-uh.  lalalala!

I say I am going to stop doing something.  And it is like a new, beautiful thing.  It is like ambrosia.  It is my favorite thing in the world.

Now.  I know this bit, I get it - the oppositional behavior (because I am fated to live as a toddler for my entire existence).  But if it has to be, then can't I make it work for me?  Can't I somehow psyche myself out, trick myself, fool the treehouse-dwelling mental tissues to peep out only in time to see what I *want* them to?  (Granted.  This means having more than one brain; a brain that hangs out in an imaginary treehouse, and another, separate, *smart* brain that does the work, cleans up the place, keeps order, is the pit boss.  Is that even possible?  And before you answer that ridiculous question, be aware that Bobby McFerrin was able to sing with two parts of his voice simultaneously, one high note, one low note, sustained.  Now, you, with your hands on your hips all sassy, go ahead and mock my idea.  It's not THAT dumb.

Well.  Okay.  It's pretty fucking dumb.  But - still!  Bobby! McFerrin! People!)

Sigh.

Anyway.  If someone could, you know, explain how I might manage to sleep better because I can finally put the imaginary calculator away, stop doing the musty math on how to trick my brain, using the same brain, I would be grateful.

I need some fucking sleep.

artemis of the silver bow.

We can't all be privates.

(And, no, I'm not referring to an entire civilization consisting of genitals.  You dorks.)

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.