Of Socks and Men

Laundry, duck hunting/firefighting absent husband, three little girls and no dogs in sight Slightly neurotic and completely at my witts end--- wife, mother, dreamer lost in her 30-somethings

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Location: Paradise

I'm a 35-year-old mother of three who has a million dreams to dream -- and three children to carry out the ones she doesn't get around to. My husband is a firefighter and an obsessed duck hunter, so I'm pretty much a single mother, trying to juggle my life around duck season and fire season.

Wednesday, January 31, 2007

A name by any other name would smell as disgusting

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but I’ll be darned if silly words don’t haunt me.

Yes, it is true. I was one of the teased and not a teaser (in early life that is-- later on I was a teaser, but that is an entirely different column).

I was doomed from the start because I was I was born with the unfortunate quality of wanting to be different. In elementary school, I refused to wear anything but dresses with crinoline underneath -- until the fourth grade when I realized no one really wants to look like Nellie Olsen.

And so, I decided to change up my style and wear jeans (unfortunately my mother liked to buy jeans with embroidery across the butt which back in the 80s wasn’t exactly cool).

I was also doomed because my maiden name happens to be Bonnie Black. Looking back, I really don’t think that is such a bad name. It kind of sounds like a cosmetic line, but my peers seemed to think it was great material for a day of torment. The principal even got in on it (for real-- she called me B-squared). I now know that is because I have to “Bs” in my name, but when I was little, I thought she called me that because I was “a good girl” (terrible news for a girl who used to only wear dresses).

Yes, I was “Blackie,” “Black Bonnie” (note: I grew up in the South) and some other names that are just too painful to print.

Armed with all this namely baggage, I married a guy with the last name of Sitter( I no longer care if you know who I am). It’s a fine name if you ask me. I actually think it sounds friendly. But if I were in school, I‘m sure the kids would have oh so much fun.

My lovely daughters have never suffered from the name-calling blues, which either means they are the callers or they’ve got some mighty tough skin. Of course, it could also mean kids have evolved and stopped all this nonsense-- wouldn’t that be nice. I think I’ll pinch myself before I become completely delusional.

I’ve tried to do my part and raise three nice, empathic girls.

Unfortunately, I think there might be trouble on the horizon and it is entirely my fault.

The problem started this Christmas when my youngest daughter asked for a black baby for Christmas. I thought her choice was pretty cool.

And the squeals of delight when she unwrapped her baby were unparalleled.

There was only one problem, she refused to name the baby and called her “Black Baby,” something I felt unacceptable because I really didn’t want her focusing in on color. Plus, I will admit I didn’t exactly relish the thought of parental stares on the playground when my angel yells out,” Black Baby you be quiet.”

I decided to try to coax her into naming the baby.

“What if I called you brown-haired girl?” I said.

She shrugged, and so I decided to call her brown-haired girl-- and what I got in return I absolutely deserved.

“Brown-haired girl come here,” said.

“Well you underwear,” she said with a giggle.

I was too shocked to speak.

“You butt-cream,” she said.

We talked about good names and back names and labeling, but she just didn’t “get it” and only looked for more obnoxious names.

“You toilet water,” she said.

We did time outs and all other “California legislature approved methods of discipline,” but nothing worked.

I decided to ignore her when she called me “diaper butt” and “underwear head” and the name-calling stopped-- until yesterday.

Yes, yesterday all my troubles seemed so far away until she called me “underwear” over breakfast.

I was shocked and pretended to cry. She came down and hugged me.

“I wove you,” she said.

“You pretty,” I said,

“You lovely,” she said back.

And so, we started a nice name-calling game.

I’ve never been so proud of myself. I thought “Wow I could write a book or something.”

“You fuzzy like a cat,” she said, getting more and more creative with her compliments.

“Well you smell like roses,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah, well you a rose bush and you got sticky things on your back,” she said.

I guess this is what I get when I feel all high and mighty: bad grammar and sticky things on my back.

(This column was previously published in the Paradise Post)

Thursday, January 11, 2007

Every dog has his day and every man has his----

Every man must have his toys and every woman must have her nemesis. Mine is the little red truck in our driveway: a ‘89 Nissan something or other and unfortunately it STILL runs.

When I met my husband, he had this beast of a mobile-- only back then it was sort cool for a single guy on the go. But now, it is just plain ugly. The paint : faded. The interior: smelly old black and reddish stripped fabric. The door panels: missing parts. Now, I will be honest. I don’t know what these parts are, but my husband assures me they are not necessary. Why are they missing? Because he thought it would be a good idea to disassemble the car one day. Why? Lord only knows-- because he is a man and men like to build things.

Do we need said vehicle? No. I have a car. He has a different truck. So why pray tell is this wheeled tomato of a truck still in my drive? Because it STILL runs, and my husband swears he won’t get a good deal for it. It will cost too much to ditch? Heck, I’ll push it over a cliff if it will get it out of my drive.

A few years ago, I thought I’d finally seen the end of my ugly red truck days after I convinced my parents that they needed a truck at their cabin. You know, so they could haul things at their leisure. Unfortunately, trucks are a like stray dogs: they require tags to go out in public and my parents-- well they were from out of state and let’s just say they didn’t get the truck all it’s immunizations. Now (even though it runs) the state enforced ugly car taxes are so high, it would be cost prohibitive to drive down the street.

And so, the truck squatted at my parent’s cabin for a few years, which I think by squatter’s rights should entitle parents to full ownership. Unfortunately my husband has a way with words and managed to get the truck out of “jail.”

He had his reasons for needing the beast. Gas was high. He had a long commute. He had turned 33 and wanted to feel like he was 23. I don’t know ( maybe that was me). All I know is that I came home one day and the red tomato was squatting in my driveway-- just like old times. Good G-D is there not relief!
I asked for divine intervention.

This past summer, I thought I’d found the answer to my prayers when my neighbors started clamoring for the truck. For some G-D awful reason, the old men in our neighborhood had a hankering for the beast (either that or their wives were sick of looking at it too and were willing to pay cold hard cash so they could push it over a cliff and out of our neighborhood). I kid you not two old guys knocked on my door and asked if I was interested in selling the truck. My heart did loop-de-loops. My lungs for got their assigned task. My brain got fuzzy drunk. And then, I breathed and said, “Hell, yes.”

But as luck would have it, it was fire season-- and Benny Boo was the one on the title. Joy to the World, I couldn’t sneak it into someone else’s drive without him knowing about it. What was a girl to do!

Apparently live with the beast for a while longer because while sucking up smoke in the San Fernando Valley, my husband decided the grand old tomato would make a grand old leaf trailer (of course he’d need a few things to accomplish “the transformation” such as a welder and other manly tools).

And so the truck sat-- for months. It got dusty. Birds nested in it. Cats and stray dogs took up residence underneath it (I’m sure of it).

As I waited for the rats, my husband did something amazing-- he cut the darned thing in half.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m taking the rest to the auto recycler.”

And the sliced tomato sat a little longer. It was now a palace for my girls who liked to play pirates in the fallen truck bed (right next to the necessary gravel pile which we absolutely need for driveway maintenance-- or so I‘m told).

A month later, my husband started disassembling it-- what ever happened to the auto recycler?

“I’m going to use the come-along to pull out the engine and transmission tomorrow,” my lovely gadget man said. “I promise I’ll take the body to the dump tomorrow. You won’t have to look at it.”

Oh but I will-- the boat of a bed will still be awaiting the welder and G-D knows what other manly tools we’ll need to purchase so we can save money on a leave trailer.

This is my test. Patience is needed. Womanly understanding could be a tad helpful too. I can endure. I am stronger than a truck. And if all else fails-- there’s still Lookout Point.

Wednesday, January 03, 2007

More weirdness

We are all a touch weird. As for me, the weirdness continues, and so good listeners pull up a couch and listen to what's on the stage within my house:

The heroine reveals a secret.

Sometimes I feel as though I'm staring into a looking glass and just beyond my grasp is the life I left behind. I loved the theater. I haven't been to a play in 10 years-- ten bloody years-- oh the torture. the horror. God save the queen this is dreadful!

Swaying back and forth like the crazy woman she has become, she explains.

I'm a mother now with only her memories.
Being on stage was a thrill -- whether it be reciting my poetry or kissing an ass in "A Midsummer's Night's Dream." Oh that ass was grand-- six foot tall with big brown eyes and breath like cheap peppermint candy.

Suddenly she realizes people are watching.

Oh, all ass kissing aside, I am now a mother with much grander responsiblities and play acting to attend to. This is my new stage: reading "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone" aloud to my 7-year-old. After playing "Heidi" and all the characters from "The Wizard of Oz," I decided to move onto to something a little more controversial-- wizards and muggles.

She trips over the Little People stable and steps on a plastic cow, but she keeps her smile like a pro-- never breaking her supreme concentration. She continues.

But still, I'd be a liar if I said I didn't miss the real stage, and so like I wrote -- oh so bizarrely in my last post-- sometimes when no one is looking, I see if I've "still got it." Oh but please don't get me wrong. I go nuts when I think people don't understand me, and so few people understand me. Oh don't make me pace the floors!

She sits on the couch and turns off yet another episode of "Hannah Montana."

I just don't want you to think that when my daughters gang up one me that I leap into the room and spout off " Now I perceive, they have conjoin'd all three to fashion this false sport, in spite of me" or that while doing laundry, I'll suddenly start wringing my hands and say "Out damn spot, out I say!"

Please, please my Shakespeare is my greatest secret and ""Though this be madness, yet there is method in 't."

The curtain falls. She downs a glass of wine and commences with folding laundry.
In 10 years, she will be competing with 70-year-old divas at the local little theater for role of "The Nurse" in "Romeo in Juliet." She might have to result to violence, but by golly she is going to get the role-- and then all the world will know. She still knows the lines.

Tuesday, January 02, 2007

Something weird happened to me

Social Worker/Frustrated Mother tagged me with the “Weird MEME,” so the good news is I probably won’t blog about the holidays or post my resolutions. The bad new is six of you are going to get tagged and all of you will one day return to this blog in July and finally read my cheesy Holiday Letter. Who knows? Maybe I’ll give it a patriotic theme and tell you all how each one of the people in my household has made America a better place in which to live.

OK here are the rules:

"According to the rules... Each player of this game starts with the "6 Weird Things about You". People who get tagged need to write a blog of their own 6 weird things as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names. Don't forget to leave a comment that says 'you are tagged' in their comments and tell them to read your blog!"


Six weird things about me-- Only six?

O.K. I will keep this brief because it is the New Year and you all need to hit the gym and buy vitamins.

1. I hold my breath on elevators.

2. I write letters to my loved ones before boarding a plane-- and I go absolutely nuts if anything impedes my ritual.

3. Sometimes I recite Shakespeare, random pieces of poetry or snippets from plays-- or heck even Bible verses-- when no one is looking. If I can’t sleep, I recite them in my head. If I’m scared, I will recite a vile speech from Richard III to heat up my blood. If I am sad, I turn to my own work.

4. When I meet certain people, a light turns on inside me and I can write poetry all day. But as soon as he or she leaves, it goes out and try as I might, the poetry just isn’t the same.

5. If I feel bad about something, I obsess over it and can’t sleep until I rectify the problem. Recently, my cousin asked me to edit a piece of writing (for some reason he thought I was a good editor-- I don't edit anything as you all know.) He made the mistake of giving me free reign -- and I took it, rearranged it and added some of my own words for clarification. Now, in my heart I knew the finished piece was much better . Anyway I didn’t sleep for three days. I barely ate and I paced around the house. Finally I called him and asked him if I had gone too far. But no, he liked the changes (and even kept parts of the pieces I’d slapped in for clarification). BTW-- this is to all the boys I hurt in my younger years, I still feel incredibly guilty for being the witch I was back in the good old days. You can rest with the knowledge that there is a girl in California who once did you wrong and who now paces the floor periodically because she feels terrible about it.

6. I love to research things and make lists.

Sorry I do not know how to be brief. OK I tag-- Karmyn, Pamela, Heather, Amishav (if you’ll do it-- You don’t seem to be of the MEME variety, but what the heck), Kigogal and Waya-- Patti (mommy dearest if you are out there) I tag you as a bonus because you haven't posted a darn thing since August and I know you are lurking out there somewhere. I can sense you saying, "Well, why didn't you write about-----"

Jodi I would tag you because I know you must have some deep dark secrets hidden in your closet, but you are not a good sport when it comes to MEMEs (so please email me with your six weird things--- please!)