“There is nothing like puking with somebody…

…to make you into old friends.” – Sylvia Plath

Note: For Clifton. For the only person who comes close to understanding.

It’s winter and winter, in my opinion, is a useless season. It’s boring. It traps us in the house, it shrouds us in darkness and makes us overeat. It drives some of us bananas. For as much as I love Sweden, I don’t know if I could handle living there permanently because the mere thought of very few hours of sunlight a day horrifies me. And, I don’t think the light box therapy would do much for me, either. Neither would copious amounts of vitamin D. Winter just sucks. It makes my fingers and toes turn bone white if they’re not wrapped up in thick socks and gloves, my skin crack and it gives me cabin fever. Compared to Kate, I handle winter well. Kate loathed winter. It sucked the life out of her – so much so that she lacked the energy to spew a torrent of fury about how much she despised winter. The most she would say was “I hate winter. I’m going back to bed. Wake me when spring comes.” Maybe she should have been a bear? Maybe we should all be bears? I wouldn’t object to hibernating. I really like to sleep, I don’t care much for the insanity between Thanksgiving and New Years and the only thing I would really miss is post-season football (and, as an Eagles fan, it’s not as if I would be missing much there, either).

To get through the tedium of winter, Kate and I started building little rituals. For a while, we saw each other over Martin Luther King, Jr weekend. Were we being servicey? Nope. Were we drunk? Yup. Did we sit in a lump on the sofa, under a pile of blankets and overdose on carbs, cheese and wine? Of course! We would also watch really crappy movies, eat more really crappy food, paint our toenails, lament about guys and life in general and spend money on clothes. Kate’s mood was usually meh even if she was happy to have company. I was thrilled to escape the doldrums of daily life and see Kate. Anytime there is a change in geography, my spirits immediately perk up a little. My perkiness likely annoyed Kate but she tolerated it.

Spring, though, spring was the time of year where Kate and I would go bananas. Spring spelled trouble. We started celebrating Easter together in our own little way. Our sole observation of Easter, itself, was eating the ears and tails of chocolate bunnies. Maybe a few jellybeans. Certainly a lot of bread (ok…so she had her fill of the Body of Christ, I suppose). Kate was a health nut and carbs were off limits and only to be enjoyed when her less than healthy friend, Kang, would come rolling into town. Throwing a loaf of freshly baked bread at Kate was like dumping catnip on the floor and watching a trillion cats come streaming out of the woodwork. Through mouthfuls she would always say “Oh…my…god…this…is…sooooooo…good. I…cannot…stop.” :chomp gnaw chomp gnaw gulp gulp gulp: Then she would reach for another loaf and a glass of wine to wash it down.

Do you really think carbs were trouble for us, though? Really? Come on, now.

Putting together a renewed Kate and an excitable Kang is like the clichéd putting the two things together in chem lab that results in an explosion which causes the evacuation of an entire school and surrounding neighborhood. Bad things or potentially scary things happen. Use of judgment is suspended. It becomes an exercise in giving zero fucks, albeit not instantaneously. It takes a while to get the ball rolling. During my “eulogy” (I really don’t want to call it that but I’m not sure what else one would call it), I explained that Kate and I were yin-yang. When Kate came alive, there were no limits. She was bold and she took risks. Kate could be wild, fun and outgoing. Meanwhile, she would be dragging along her shy (until certain level of intoxication was achieved) pal who had the proverbial rod up her ass at all times. You know the type – the woman who would dust off seats before sitting down because she’s a freakish germaphobe; the woman who worried if the guys we were talking to would try to slip roofies in our drinks. Why Kate never pulled the rod out of my ass and clubbed me over the head with it remains a mystery but there was one instance where my being a total tight-ass worked in our favor (we may or may not have bogarted someone’s entire stash of weed while camping out at a NASCAR race and they may or may not have expected compensation in forms other than monetary and I may or may not have suggested that we run like the fucking wind to get away only to end up falling into a gully and having Kate standing over me, laughing too hard to help me out of the gully with the worms, snakes, tarantulas, alligators, rodents, scorpions, grizzly bears, wild boar, etc…).

Easter weekend always resulted in several incriminating photos of us (once, she decided we were going line dancing and dressed me in head to toe denim – RED, made me wear ropers with fringe and teased my hair). One night always ended with our running away from men who thought our game of “let’s see how many free drinks we can get from these weasels” wasn’t a fun game for them. One of us was usually screaming “OMG! RUN! Run faster!” Alternatively, “Hide here. They’ll never find us here (the aforementioned gully was not part of the ‘hide here’ plan)!” Most nights culminated at the Waffle House with a table full of food while we mewled incorrect lyrics to really shitty country songs. And in our drunken, maudlin stupor, we made plans for our retirement. No matter where we were in life, no matter what we accomplished, no matter how much money we had, how many husbands we had been through, how many children were involved, Kate and I were going to buy a house somewhere in the South (preferably near water) with a giant porch. We were going to have 20 million cats, sit on the porch, gum our dinners off of tv trays and gossip about everyone who walked by. We would also be doing this while wearing all the really nice clothes we had purchased during the daylight hours while we were sober. And maybe some of the jewelry, too. Ok…definitely the jewelry and none of that cheap shit for us, either. Sure, there was a time and a place for paste and there wasn’t anything inherently wrong with wearing costume jewelry but we were ladies and, as such, we demanded the good stuff from the men who would not be permitted to live in our retirement home. They (the men) were, however, welcome to live a few doors down and come over to fix whatever was broken. We may have hatched these plans while we were seeing double, stumbling drunk and on our way to throw up the delicious vittles we just stuffed in our faces at the Waffle House but we were always, always pragmatists.

Oh…and did I mention shopping? Yes, it might seem like something that girlfriends do together but Kate and I have been doing that together since we were fifteen or sixteen years old. We were exceptionally impatient with each other on our particular snipe hunts for the perfect whatever. Kate’s sense of style was impeccable – from slutty chic to well put together slob – she could pull it off. Whereas I was floundering in the finest of corporate attire (something which caused her considerable angst when she saw me in a suit and pearls for the first time). Kate also possessed this uncanny ability to find the niftiest stuff at second hand shops (again, something I would never dream of doing since…GERMS). One weekend, I lamented that I didn’t have a decent pair of jeans so Kate took it upon herself to find one for me. She regretted it from the minute she volunteered. How did I know she regretted it? We lost count at pair number 80 (no embellishment). As she brought pair after pair back to me in the dressing room, she went from knocking on the door and handing them to me to throwing them over the door. Then the throwing became aggressive with intent to harm. Probably around pair 90, I decided that I would take two of the same solely because I didn’t want to lose an eye. But…when you’re with your best friend, even assault by denim and whiffs of pending death are simply signs that you’re loved dearly.

Sundays would eventually come and it would be time for me to load the car. Usually, at this point, the sisterly aspect of our friendship would manifest itself. There was a lot of “Oooooh…I love you so very much, I’m so glad you came but…please get the fuck out.” on her part and I would be thinking “Oh…I love you very much. Thank you for a wonderful weekend. Please try not to get us killed the next time we get together.” We would stuff all of my shopping loot in the trunk, pound the trunk shut, exchange hugs and kisses and I would be on my way back to Raleigh where I knew a verbal spanking awaited me for my husband did not view these weekends as fondly as I. To this day, I remain confused by that. Granted, I may have spent the equivalent of a mortgage payment or two but it’s not like I was arrested or anything. It’s not like I came home with a second husband. And, really, what’s another tattoo, anyhow? It’s my body; not his.

Whenever spring rolls around now, I wait until the yellow clouds of pollen settle and then I go for a drive on the back roads near the house. I roll down the windows and open the sunroof as Kate would do. I’ll play music that Kate would listen to (except the Grateful Dead. Kate – I’m so, so very sorry but I cannot abide by that shit and you know it) or might like now. I’ll think of our high jinks and smile a devilish smile. I’ll choke back a tear or two and remind myself that I’m supposed to be enjoying this moment on her behalf. Then, I’ll return home and resume life with no one knowing what I have just done because best friends, among many things, are also the keepers of the secrets. If I’m feeling particularly untethered or lost, I might pull out the hatbox full of the pictures she loved to take and send and go through them. Or, I’ll go through my closet and look at the clothes I bought during one of our many sprees. And then, I’ll envision Kate rolling her eyes at me, making a silly face and laughing at me for being the closeted, sentimental fool that I am. The side of me that only Kate and a very select few ever get to see because, again, secrets.

In real time, it’s the end of January. MLK Jr weekend has passed. Easter has yet to arrive. My fingers and toes are still bone white and totally numb. I’m in total agreement with Kate about the eternal suckitude that is winter – especially winters that bring only cold rain and no snow. At least light reflects off of snow and no matter how old you are, you can play in snow. My hibernation tendencies are high but there are things to be done. Milky and I need to go find lingonsylt today since the grocery store near our house stopped carrying it. Much to my surprise, the end of the month of single-momming it finds me upright and marginally pleasant but I believe a lot has to do with the fact that each day, I try to do one thing that Kate would enjoy doing. One thing to keep Kate’s spirit present. One thing to keep Kate with me in a way that’s more than just a memory. Maybe today will be about a freshly baked loaf of bread or maybe it will involve a giant nap? Maybe I’ll be wild and crazy and do both if Milky allows. I will certainly do one thing, regardless of Milkface’s plan: think of spring.

You load sixteen tons, what do you get…

…Another day older and deeper in debt.

A few years ago, Mat Honan wrote a piece for Gizmodo called Generation X is Sick of Your Bullshit. Outwardly, we Gen Xers read the article and responded with a nod and “mmhmm.” Inwardly, most of us were jumping up and down, screaming “Can I get an Amen, brotha man?” We are sick of your bullshit. But we have always been sick of your bullshit. And who is the “you?” Everyone else who isn’t us. We are legion. We are misanthrope. You are welcome to kiss our asses, get the fuck out or die in a fire. Your choice. I don’t care. Really. I just don’t care. Just do it, do it now and preferably without much noise because I have fucking work to do and my stress level is way too fucking high because, thanks to you corporate, soulless baby boomers – pensions are no longer an option. You may suck my non-existent dick for that. I love not having financial security. Really. Sincerely. I love not being able to sleep at night knowing that my entire future rides on the backs of people in a largely unregulated industry where malfeasance goes unpunished. I love that this crushing pressure has reduced me to a rambling idiot who should be locked away in a padded cell for the protection of all mankind. Thanks for the solid, bitches.

For some time now, we have been hearing about “change” at my current sandbox. No one knew how this change would manifest itself. We had our own conspiracy theories but there was no valid inkling as to what lies ahead for us. Our organization is a shape shifter so most of us ignore the whole “change” warning and continue banging away at our keyboards until we’re told to come to a meeting and meet our new boss. Then we go back to banging away at our keyboards. One of my former bosses said during one of these re-orgs that he had been with the company X amount of years and had seven different managers. I interpreted that message as “Don’t fret about job security. This is simply our corporate culture.” and I resumed banging away at my keyboard like 100 monkeys on typewriters.

The “change” messages picked up steam shortly after the New Year and there was a different tone to them. A sense of urgency, maybe? I couldn’t put my apathetic finger on it but, instinctively, I didn’t like what I was hearing. I certainly didn’t like what I was feeling in my gut. Then I started losing some sleep.

Last weekend, I was at lunch with my father. My father, being of the Silent Generation, understands what it’s like to be overlooked or fucked over on a consistent basis. He also has keen insight into what I do since he was a supply chain wonk for many years, as well (my following in my father’s swag sneaker footprints was entirely coincidental). My father appreciates the misery of going to a production meeting, having zero inventory of a necessary part and knowing the line is going to stop because you’re the purchasing manager and you’re responsible for everything – even if you cannot control everything. He also taught me my most treasured retort in my entire career: “What do you want me to do? Eat iron and shit parts?” Trust me on this one – when you’re the only female manager in the entire ops division and you say that in a production meeting – you turn some fucking heads.

So, Daddy asks “Are you worried about what’s coming?” I thought for a minute and said “Yes and no? I’m sort of Zen about the whole thing. After all, I’m a Gen Xer. Yes. I’m terrified I could be made redundant or be laid off for no reason because I’m the primary bread winner and that would mean the family ends up homeless. Yet, I’m not worried because I have dealt with this level of bullshit my entire career.” And Gen Xers have.

Back in the glorious, money grabbing 90s, if you worked in RTP and you didn’t like your job or your comp & ben packet, you could walk across the street, announce your presence and say “I would like to work here, make $xx,xxx or $xxx,xxx and have y-amount of paid time off” and you would likely get a job. Maybe you would luck into some stock options. You would also have a cafeteria plan for health insurance. My first job in RTP had a dry cleaning service that came to our floor to pick up and drop off our laundry. Life was good. Then the dotcom bubble burst and life was unpleasant. First the cafeteria plans went away. Then the value of shares went in the toilet. Then the email came: Go to Glittery Pines Conference Room on Wednesday at 3 pm for a mandatory meeting. Note: mandatory meetings on Wednesdays means someone is losing his/her job. Most payrolls close on Wednesdays (or did? I try to avoid the trolls in accounting as they make my life hell with credit holds).

I sat in Glittery Pines Conference Room across from the VP of our department and listened to him go through this rigmarole about how we need to streamline our offerings to better service our internal customers. Everyone’s eyes widened. None of us knew what the fuck he was talking about because, again, this was the glorious, money grabbing 90s. The VP tells us that some people will be losing their jobs. I remember talking back to him but I don’t remember what I said. I was in my 20s. Being in your 20s and being marginally good (ok…in this instance, toot my own horn – really fucking good at what you do) is a potentially lethal combination because…hubris. I was lucky. Not only was I not made redundant – I didn’t lose my job for being a blistering asshole in front of a group of people. My take away from that experience was – time to GTFO and find another job. I’m not going to deal with this level of insecurity on a daily basis. So, months later, I was the purchasing manager at a different company. Stupid, stupid, stupid octopus.

Y2K arrives. We’re all still spending money like the bubble hadn’t burst. I’m at the new job. It’s been a few months and while it wasn’t overly challenging, I was having a rip-roaring good time playing practical jokes on my coworkers. In between turning offices upside down, developing a procure-to-pay process for the organization and saving some serious cabbage, I noticed another peculiar vibe developing. Board members started coming in for more frequent meetings. No one leaned on me to be extra aggressive with cost cutting but I wasn’t making any capital acquisitions, either. People started huddling and whispering. I cornered my boss and said “Are we in trouble? Do I need to send out my CV?” He said he couldn’t tell me anything. It doesn’t take a rocket surgeon to realize that if an organization’s funding is drying up, the first one out the door is going to be the person who spends the money. Fortunately, on my way out, one of the board members asked for my resume which is how I ended up on the administrative side of healthcare.

In the course of 12 months, I had been exposed to “right-sizing” and “fuck you! The doors are locked.” Fourteen years later, not much has changed, unfortunately. If anything, the climate has become much, much worse for the worker bee. Gone are the 50 hour work weeks. Here are the 55 to 60 hour work weeks and if you happen to have a job, you’re happy to be working those ridiculous hours. If you’re lucky, you may be able to wrangle a merit increase of 3%. If you’re really lucky, your organization offers an incentive plan that will provide some sort of reasonable bonus (call me ungrateful but anything under four digits to the left of the decimal point…meh). You may have a reasonable allocation of paid time off but the likelihood that your workload will allow you to use all of it is not very promising. Last year, I was so burned out from the previous year, I scheduled shoulder surgery to get some much needed rest. And I have it good. Really good.

How good do I have it? Well, let’s take a look – my job is my dream job. Years ago, when I was working as a civil servant for a large academic medical center, one of my colleagues knocked on my door and was received by resting-bitch-face-Kang. I was doing an analysis of a particular vendor’s book of business at our hospital and she said something along the lines of “How do you do that and not go crazy?” What??? Back then, it was hard for me to determine which provided me with more pleasure: redlining proposals and pretending I was some sort of legal mastermind or sitting down with thousands of lines of data and trying to figure out where the markup was buried. Both were favored by me because they afforded me the luxury of not having to interact with people directly. I could ensconce myself in my office, among all the plants that I grew (including the Venus Flytrap which was there as a message to all vendors – piss me off and I will feed you, bit by bit, to my little pet), stream Swedish radio and just do my fucking work without having to smile, make small talk, deal with office politics or be remotely pleasant if I didn’t feel like being remotely pleasant that day. I do remember responding to my coworker “No – this is my dream job. It’s procurement without the bullshit.”

And somehow – a cross between years of really hard work and good timing landed me where I am today: working from home, playing with spreadsheets, learning all sorts of really neat clinical stuff and not having to worry about who mistakes painful shyness for snobbery. And yes, I really mean it. I LOVE my job. I believe in what it is that I do. Between the academic medical center and shape shifting corporation, I tried life in a different business and it was awful. I didn’t feel as if I was making any contribution to the world at all. In healthcare, in my own little way, I get to make things better. And – given my Marxist tendencies, extreme disdain for Free Market Capitalism in healthcare, I get to poke little holes in the system each day with every silly little scenario I devise. One cost saving measure at a time, I’m sticking it to profiteering corporations. And maybe, just maybe, there’s one less family out on the street because they didn’t lose their home to offset an astronomical medical bill. Or maybe, just maybe, there’s someone whose life is slightly better because all of these community based, not-for-profit and non-profit hospitals are finally able to sit at the table with the big business bullies and hold their own during negotiations? Or, maybe I’m delusional (likely a little bit of each)?

Which brings me back to the whole Gen X is sick of your bullshit, I’m Zen about the whole re-org bit yet I’m hyperventilating and sobbing at the same time. Yesterday was an exercise in epic trolling. Two meetings. Both mandatory. Both involving participation from human resources (people I consider to be just as low as garden variety bill collectors, repo men or Ferguson police officers). When the words: mandatory and human resources appear in the same meeting invitation, nothing good can come of it. Nothing. Before I know it, I’m in tears and texting my mommy “I’m sc-sc-scarrrrrrred” which I genuinely was because, again, I love my job, I know I have it good and I know without this job my family is fucked. In this instance, Shape Shifters, LLC did what it typically does and pleasantly surprises most of us. Just like it did the last time this happened when I was given the opportunity to demote myself so I could stay in town and raise my child (something I had wanted) without losing any pay.

Unfortunately, not everyone works for a Shape Shifters, LLC. Unfortunately, not everyone who wants to work is working. And no, conservatards, they’re not sitting at home doing nothing with an Escalade parked outside while they collect welfare from your precious tax dollars. I’m sorry if that offends your delicate sensibilities. Your mere existence offends mine.

We’re at a weird time and place when people are no longer a valued asset to most organizations. We’re human capital. While we have long been viewed as parts of the machinery, it’s now perfectly acceptable to treat us as such instead of as people. Those of us who have jobs are fairly afraid to speak out about anything that seems unfair because the alternative is pretty harsh (no job at all). The employed have gone from doing the job of 1.5 people to that of 2 or 3 and the merit increases shrink year over year. Don’t even get me started on comp & ben packets, either. What I saw and experienced with Canuckian Telecom was beyond the pale and really showed me that humanity, as a whole, is very disappointing – as in…just lob a giant meteor at the Earth and get it over with disappointing.

By the end of the day, yesterday, I couldn’t speak. The toll from the emotional roller coaster ride was just too much for me. I wanted to speak. There were people I wanted to talk to. I had things I wanted to do. I was just too damn worn out from worrying myself (physically) sick. So, maybe Gen X cares a little bit about something after all? And maybe there will come a day when Gen X isn’t hovering over a garbage can with a case of the dry heaves in their office, waiting for that fucking mandatory meeting. And maybe there will come a day when a human being returns to being recognized as such. In the interim, the fuck if I know what to do other than hope that I have the same job this time next year and that my 401k statement isn’t a photocopied picture of someone’s middle finger.

THE RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE

One starry night, when the moon was just right,
Drank the octopus and the pussycat,
When they were both were pie-eyed,
A fine hobbit they spied,
And at the same time said both “I’d hit that!”
So using their charms, tucked him under their arms
And carried him up to their room,
Where their lust took control,
Tentacles, tongue, and hole,
Took him to the edge of Mount Doom,
Eight arms and a tongue, and the night was just young,
There was nary a part left untouched,
There was many a groan, the hobbit held his own,
Though in moments a little nonplussed,
At the height of the action, a guttural reaction,
Each screaming to their deity,
Despite lack of coherence, a religious experience,
Orgasms had by all three!

It had to happen…

…eventually.

Being married to a self-proclaimed Evangelical Agnostic and drifting further and further away from my faith, the question loomed large. What are we going to do with the child? Since there is more to being a Jew than the religious aspects, we really were faced with a significant challenge. The Evangelical Agnostic is not shy about his feelings. At one point, he said anyone who followed any religion was “stupid.” I was sitting in the den. EA was standing in the doorway. Hanging on the wall, facing me was a plaque that reads “Shalom” (it’s still in the same spot but the den is now Milky’s bedroom). My house is not outfitted with Judaica but there are bits and pieces here and there. I collect dreidels. I have menorot (one via my grandmother and namesake). There is a mezuzah on the doorpost. None of these things speak to my level of commitment to my faith, though. At least not on a conscious level. They’re more along the lines of “things Kang likes” or “things you just do.” When you move into a home, you put a mezuzah on the doorpost. It’s just what is done. As Milkface grew inside me, I thought of the whole “stupid” comment while sitting in my den, looking at the word “Shalom” and trying to keep the definition and spirit present within and wonder…what do we with the kid?

While I’m of the Reform persuasion, looking back, my upbringing was leaning a bit conservative. Had it not been an interfaith marriage, I’m pretty sure our family would have been members of the Conservative temple. For years, my stepfather dragged me to and from shul for Hebrew school (Mondays or Tuesdays), Sunday school and confirmation classes. My mother would deal with my sullen, unpleasant tween self by forcing me out of bed, into a dress and over to temple for whatever classes were on Saturday and services. I’m a proud member of the Jew Camp Illuminati (credit to Foster Kamer for that brilliance), having gone away to the Poconos for eight glorious summers of shenanigans, kosher food, prayer and the opportunity to not be a minority for at least four to eight weeks a year. Jewish summer camp is a pretty big deal and I highly recommend reading City Boy: The Adventures of Herbie Bookbinder by Herman Wouk if you’re interested in learning about the long tradition of sending little Jewish kids off to the mountains in the summer since it’s been going on for nearly 100 years.

Ultimately, we decided that, at the very minimum, Milky would be culturally Jewish. He would identify as a Jew. Half of his family is Jewish. Random Yiddish words pop up in conversation so naturally that I’m completely unaware of the occurrence. My family is delightfully neurotic and prone to self-deprecating humor. On my part, there is a very strong passion to keep the family folklore alive – from how my father’s family managed to evade a Pogrom, my stepfather’s family experience with the Holocaust and the general immigrant experience that many Jews either had first hand or have heard via tales from their Bubbes and Zaydes. Then there’s the ugly baggage that comes along with being Jewish (culturally or observant) – bigotry and rampant racism. If the child is going to be raised as a Jew (practicing or non), we, as parents, are going to have to prepare him for that. There is no avoiding that. Not even if you grow up in suburbia with other Jews. The bigots…they will find you and depending on where you are in life, what your experiences are and how you are adept at managing this bullshit, your life will become a temporary hell.

Now that we consigned Milky to his fate, without his permission (something oft criticized by the EA set), all we needed to do was put the plan in motion. Here you go, kid. Have fun with your new identify! You is J00, now. You will have latkes, gefilte fish and chopped liver and like them. You will grow up being told that you will be a doctor and a doctor you will be (Sorry, it’s your father’s fault you were born male). Your mommy will wreak such havoc with your psyche that all future romantic partners will curse my existence for perpetuity. And don’t even think about looking at a state college, pal. It’s Hopkins, MIT or Duke for you. Fret not, you’ll find other young, Jewish males whose soul has been sucked from them, too. You will sit around bars and basements with them, watch sports and critique the game play at an expert level while being completely unable to play said game yourself because, let’s face it, we’re not exactly athletic people. You’re welcome. Really. You should be a little more gracious and appreciative, however. Mommy had to do an enormous amount of work and sacrifice a great deal of herself to provide you with all of this. And you won’t even pick up the phone and call…

Since we are not religious and are not practicing anything other than how to not leave the living room looking like a toy tornado ripped through it, religious symbols, holidays and other things haven’t exactly been high on the list of things we discuss. Sure, we’ll whip out the menorah at Chanukkah and light the candles but we also have the tree and give presents on Christmas. Dock may not like the concept of religion but he sure as shit loves the concept of presents. This year, however, things are changing as Milky is in kinderMAPP and is learning *everything* at a pace that defies description. This includes symbolism. Last month, it occurred to Milky that the “stars” are ours and the “t’s” belong to everyone else. Ok. Time to discuss religion, explain symbolism and tell him that there are many more flavors at the old ice cream parlor. But the point – Milky knows he is Jewish and he seems pretty down with that. Kewl. Let’s hope he doesn’t decide he wants to go to synagogue or have a Bar Mitzvah because I’m not sure I want to deal with that aspect of it for reasons I’ll explain later.

The drawback to Milky’s realization and self-identification is now he knows he’s Jewish and to my point earlier, this privilege comes with a whole lot of unnecessary and unpleasant baggage. The other day I wrote about my experiences on Rosh Hashanah where the Jews were eating each other. I don’t want Milky to experience that. I don’t want Milky to have to listen to ramblings about how Jewish he is because his lineage isn’t 100% Jewish. I don’t want Milky to be put in the position of questioning his identity as I was when I was a teenager. That shit hurts! You think you’re in a safe zone when you’re among your own and it turns out…you’re not! Scripture is murky and can be interpreted many different ways. Some may say that certain people aren’t Jewish but others will accept that they are. People outside the faith make no distinction when it’s time to put us on train cars, though. So, that’s huge problem number one: potential discrimination from within the tribe. I don’t like dealing with that. Do you think I want to put my child in those crosshairs? Say what you will about my parenting methods but no one can say that I’m not one hell of a protective mom.

On to problem number two: discrimination and intimidation from everyone and everywhere else. I mean, do I really have to cite specific examples? Is that really necessary? Were we not paying attention in history class, folks? Very well – what happened yesterday in Paris? Unsatisfied with the outcome at Charlie Hebdo’s office, the fanatics decided to raise the bar on the berserk scale and go buck wild at a kosher grocery shortly before the start of Sabbath. Four people were killed. Why? Wrong place at the wrong time? Did they do something offensive? Did they run over a cute little bunny on their way to work? Possibly. Nope. Nope. They were killed because they were Jewish. Of course. Now, France doesn’t have the best track record managing anti-Semitism and I feel fairly comfortable pointing a finger because I did spend time in France and did spend over ten years of my life studying all things French. So no, I’m not rambling from a knee-jerk perspective, looking for a source to assign blame. That said, you know it’s bad, you know it’s legitimate when François Hollande flatly declares the attack at Hyper Cacher was anti-Semitic.

Awesome.

I should like to add – as the events of yesterday unfolded and I was jabbering with my family, this came as a surprise to no one. We all saw this coming. As soon as the words “kosher market” were said, we knew. We knew why. We knew what the outcome would be. We know these things because we have lived this directly or indirectly. And, as I mentioned the other day, there will be plenty of commentary stating that the evil, horrible Jews deserved what they got.

Tell me, again, why I chose this life for my child? Of all the things I could bestow on my kid, I decided to give him a life of managing this? What was I thinking? Why am I even thinking these things? I’m not the one with the fucking problem. Neither is my family. Nor most Jews. And please, shut the fuck up about Israel. This is about being Jewish; not Israeli. Stop linking the two every single time something happens and stop using politics as an excuse to be a fucking racist asshole. Jews don’t deserve to be targeted because of the actions of a nation they don’t live in. YES. It is that simple. Furthermore, if people keep attacking Jews and killing us, these people are simply enforcing the need for a Jewish state where we nice, minding-our-own-damn-business Jews can go about our lives without having pennies thrown at us, having to endure hate speech, see swastikas, listen to “jokes” or worry about being killed.

My question about whether or not human beings deserve such a privilege as religion may be nearing an answer in my own brain. I’m beginning to lean towards: NO. It’s far too destructive and we do not use the tool/device as we should. Looking back through history, we haven’t been, either. My personal perspective – I’m very close to cashing in the old chips and walking out the door with my remaining kitty. I know I’ll never cease being a cultural Jew and that part I will not relinquish. That part I will pass along to my child. As for the religious aspect, I don’t think I am capable of fully relinquishing that, either. There’s too much guilt and fear. Yet another reason why I wonder if religion is a good thing. If you think about walking away from it but don’t because you’re guilty or afraid – that isn’t a good thing. That’s an abusive relationship, is it not?

Another day, more words, continuing frustrations and no answers. And in due course, I’m going to have to have the conversation that all Jewish parents have with their children. I’m going to have the good fortune of trying to explain why, throughout history, people have been killing us because of religion. No amount of self-deprecating humor, jokes about the IJC or funny stories about the insane allegations that Mommy is an agent of Mossad will soften the blow, either.

I do not want…

…your fucking shirt.

Everybody’s talking at me
I don’t hear a word they’re saying
Only the echoes of my mind

People stopping, staring
I can’t see their faces
Only the shadows of their eyes

I’m going where the sun keeps shining
Through the pouring rain
Going where the weather suits my clothes – Harry Nilsson

No, he wasn’t talking about the cacophony emanating from the human race but the lyrics really suit the mood of the day regarding cacophony. With the pain of the mass murder of the great minds at Charlie Hebdo still fresh, condemnation freely flows. A good amount of it is justifiable. From our perspective, no one has the right to silence another because the message may be unsavory. We have a right to argue. We have a right to disagree. We have a right to ignore. We have no right to kill another human being because we find their particular message distasteful or blasphemous. This seems to be lost among many (regardless of preferred religion).

Along with the justifiable outrage, sheer terror and tremendous heartbreak, now we get to wade through the sea of bigotry because this is what happens when a subset of a particular group behaves horrendously. The few become the sole representation of the many and unfairly so. Being a religious minority myself, I certainly appreciate that special feeling of mortification and understand the dread in anticipation of the backlash. Each time Israel blunders, I steel myself for the hate speech and look at the computer monitor through splayed fingers with a turning stomach and legs that feel like lead. Today, tomorrow and, potentially, the following day, decent Muslims will be attacked by the ignorant masses who presume that bad apples represent an entire belief system. It’s shameful and disgusting. It’s why so many people looked at Australia with wonder in middle-December when they responded to an attack with love instead of hate via I’ll Ride with You. The rest of the world seems completely incapable of doing that. It’s why I have a tendency to get a bit twitchy and bitchy when I hear people say :insert random demographic here: are dangerous/evil/vile/must be wiped off the planet. It’s why I won’t allow others to besmirch what they do not know or understand – at least in my presence. It’s very easy to look at something, form an opinion and stick to it when you lack basic facts and knowledge, especially when everyone else appears to be doing the same. I hate to be the bearer of bad news but that is the very definition of prejudice. Oh…and you thought you were so very evolved and enlightened, didn’t you?

Alas, this isn’t a tentacle wag at the bigots. This is actually something a bit different. The above is actually a rambling aside.

I freely admit that I spent a large portion of my time in my 20s in a drunken stupor or stoned (possibly). If you’re unmarried, childless, gainfully employed and unencumbered by any other responsibility, your 20s are the appropriate time for fucking around and fuck around I did. That said, for as drunk as I was, I don’t recall the world being as barking mad as it appears to be today. Could it have been because I spent ½ of my 20s living outside of the Bible Belt where religion was just one of those things that was a part of life and not the sole point of life? I really don’t think so. I lived in predominantly Catholic Western Pennsylvania, went to a state university and for the life of me, I don’t recall the cafeteria feeding us meat on Friday. It was fish. Every Friday in Western Pennsylvania was fish and mac and cheese day. Yet, no one was hounding me to surrender my faith. Those who even bothered to ask really didn’t care that I wasn’t one of them. Oh, and I really loved fish and mac and cheese day, too.

Religion didn’t really become an issue for me until I moved to the Bible Belt. Since then, I have had the joy of experiencing discrimination at every single job I have had. It’s not pleasant. But what’s really unpleasant, what’s really the catalyst behind my picking up my ball and going home (reevaluating my entire position on religion, in general) is the incessant attempts at evangelization. Yes. I understand that certain groups have instructions to go forth and seed. And, yes, I have tried to be patient and respectful of this but a person can only stomach so much before it becomes offensive.

As I see it, religion and attempts to shift someone away from their existing ideology to the ideology of another is just madness. And it’s presumptuous, rude and in very poor taste. Think about this scenario:

You’re out and about doing whatever it is that you do and someone walks up to you with a shirt in their hands. They see that you’re already wearing a shirt but that doesn’t really matter to them. That person thinks their shirt is better than the shirt you’re currently wearing. They say “Look. I have a shirt for you. I think you need to put it on right now. This very minute, to be exact.” You tilt your head in confusion. You point to your shirt. You tell them that you’re already wearing a shirt that you quite like. Yet, the person you’re speaking to is neither listening nor caring about the words coming out of your mouth. Instead, they say “NO. You must wear THIS shirt. This shirt. Right here in my hands. Wear it. Wear it now.” Again, you look at your shirt and the slightly deranged person talking to you and you say “Allow me to iterate, I have a shirt. I’m wearing a shirt. It is a comfortable shirt. No thank you.” Still in denial, they thrust the shirt in your face and adamantly exclaim “But MY shirt is better than YOUR shirt. It will save you!” “Save me? Save me from what?” you ask “Is it made of Kevlar and thus bullet proof?” The shirt bearer stares at you like you’re crazy and says “No.” You ask “Is it impregnated with some sort of anti-bacterial and/or anti-viral substance that will keep me immune from all disease?” Shirt bearer shakes head no. “In the event that I’m standing atop a very high building, near the ledge, and someone decides to shove me, will a parachute deploy and will I float safely to the ground?” The shirt bearer, again, responds “No.” You follow with “Ok. Given that there is zero evidence that this particular shirt will save me from three imminent threats (or three terrible traps, three terrible traps, three terrible traps – so terrible!), please tell me how and why you think this shirt can save me.”

Marginally flummoxed, the shirt bearer responds in the only manner they can “Well, it’s because that is what I believe.” You, finding this data insufficient, tell the person that you disagree with them which prompts the de rigueur “But then you will go to hell.” Not one to pass up the opportunity to scramble brains, you say “Well, the joke is on you. I don’t believe hell exists.” Completely exasperated, the shirt bearer hollers “PUT ON THIS SHIRT!” You calmly say “Please take your shirt and leave.” “MY SHIRT IS BETTER THAN YOUR SHIRT! I WILL NOT BE DENIED” howls the shirt bearer. You repeat “Please take your shirt and leave.” “WHY WON’T YOU WEAR MY FUCKING SHIRT?” Losing patience, you testily snap “Please take your shirt and your very un-pious self and go away.” “I HATE YOU. I WILL ONLY LIKE YOU IF YOU WEAR THIS SHIRT. “ Again, “Please take your shirt and leave.” Shirt bearer snarls “YOU ARE A VILE HUMAN BEING AND I’M GOING TO SPEW HATEFUL WORDS AT YOU, YOU BLASPHEMOUS, SINFUL PIG!”

In that scenario – do you want to put on that shirt? Do you want to spend time with that shirt bearing freak? NO. And now you understand why many of us are growing tired of religion, in general? Is the popularity of the Flying Spaghetti Monster starting to make sense?

Within the first few months of living in North Carolina, a colleague asked me out to lunch. I was excited as I thought “Hey! Friend making time! Hooray!!!” And, since we know how much I love putting myself out there and trying to make friends, this was a pretty big deal to me. On our way to lunch, she played Christian rock which I found peculiar but kept my mouth shut. At lunch, she openly prayed before eating. Again, for someone not from the Bible Belt – different but something I was going to have to accept as the cultural norm. Then she proceeds to talk to me about religion. She expresses her grave concern for my soul since Jesus is not my savior. She is very worried that I’m going to hell; so worried that she invited me to lunch to talk to me about where I was going astray. All I could do was look at her, smile and say “I’m not concerned about hell. I know you’re praying for me and that should take care of it.” We never went to lunch together again.

Mind you, all of this isn’t meant as an indictment of Christianity. Like every family has its crazy relative, each religion has its crazy zealots who taint the rest of the followers. Each religion has its own issues with thinking it’s the only path (towards what…who the fuck really knows). Each religion sits in judgment of the next. Shit – each religion judges itself. I spent one Rosh Hashanah listening to a Rabbi drone on forever about how horrible the Hasidim are towards those who are less orthodox. The Rabbi condemned someone in our own faith for condemning us. It was one of the most fucked up experiences I have ever had. I wanted to walk out of synagogue but I was too afraid that the Almighty above would smite me for leaving temple in the middle of a High Holy Day. And don’t even get me started on how fucked up being afraid of something that may or may not exist is. My attempts to reconcile that one over the past 18 years have proven unsuccessful.

And this is why I sit with a very fatigued brain and heart and wonder if any of this is worth it. Aside from some inner peace which could, theoretically, be obtained through various other methods, what is humanity getting out of this whole religion thing? War. Discrimination. Murder. Death. Women being treated as chattel or worse. On a good day, we’re lucky if someone is simply offended by hearing their religion used as a verb, it seems. That’s not sufficient enough for me. Not anymore.

There are many things I think humans are not capable of handling responsibly, as collectively, we all do a wonderful job of dropping the ball and screwing things up. I’m starting to wonder if religion is one of those things. Have we bastardized the whole concept to the point where it is more detrimental than beneficial? Is religion simply an outmoded technology (a series of laws before there were actual governments)? I genuinely do not know. What I do know is this – I cannot bear another yesterday. I don’t want to raise my child in a world where yesterdays are not only possible but normal.

Je suis Charlie…

…aujourd’hui et toujours.

We want to laugh at the extremists — every extremist. They can be Muslim, Jewish, Catholic. Everyone can be religious, but extremist thoughts and acts we cannot accept. – Laurent Léger

More headdesk

Ha ha! Fuck you!

Behold…the end of the calendar and fiscal year. All reports (time and expense) must be filed by close of business today to make the finance trolls less stabby. Surely you did not expect things to function properly? Why would the most erratic VPN on Earth be anything but? And why, why would you operate under the silly assumption that your piece of shit Lenovo StinkPad not crash 40 times whilst reworking a file the size of…I dunno…something really large? At this point, I’m really at a loss for words. And hope. That’s lost, as well. And sanity. Let’s review what is lost: hope, words, sanity. Yup.

Please, please keep crashing, StinkPad. Please inhibit any progress I may attempt to make today. Please make doing rework more exhilarating. I would love nothing more than to be sitting in the exact same position, performing the exact same exercise in futility at 10 pm. Really. I would. Don’t believe otherwise for this is the stuff I live for. This is the stuff of dreams.

…september

This morning brought a kick in the pants courtesy of Blitzken. He posted an article written by Mark Manson titled Love is Not Enough. Initially, I giggled because the preview mentioned Trent Reznor and we all know how well things end up for me when Trent Reznor is involved. Then I thought “Hmmm…It’s Sunday morning. You have a ton of things to do today and you’re not in the best head space to begin with. Are you sure you want to go down this rabbit hole?” Given that I am extremely adept at making bad decisions, I clicked and the little hamster on the little wheel in my little head started running and running and running.

This article is quite provocative and potentially painful. It certainly gave me a great deal to chew on and a great deal to file under: Denial or Save for Therapist. Accepting love does not come easily. We’re humans and, as such, we’re not overly bright when it comes to management of emotions. At least I’m not and I’m fairly certain I’m not alone in this regard. What really stung was reading this:

One of the oldest pieces of relationship advice in the book is, “You and your partner should be best friends.” Most people look at that piece of advice in the positive: I should spend time with my partner like I do my best friend; I should communicate openly with my partner like I do with my best friend; I should have fun with my partner like I do with my best friend.

But people should also look at it in the negative: Would you tolerate your partner’s negative behaviors in your best friend?

Again – a billion thoughts in the head but the one I’m willing to cop to is thinking about my relationship with Kate.

When I spoke at Kate’s memorial service, I had nothing prepared. One would think that someone who likes words and likes to make things out of words would have had some idea, a rough outline of sorts, of what to say or how to speak about her dearly departed best friend. I genuinely didn’t. Even that morning, as I was getting ready (which, to be honest, other than throwing on a dress, I didn’t do because I felt it was pointless to look nice) I couldn’t think of a damn thing to say other than wailing “I want my best friend back.”

When it was time to speak, I stood in front of a room of people (which I despise doing) and decided to talk about our friendship and what made it the perfect friendship for us. Kate and I were “yin-yang” to the core. From our appearance, our personalities, how we approached life, etc… I remember saying “Kate is kind and I am…me.”

After reading the article, I started thinking about Kate’s negative behaviors. People are prone to canonizing the deceased. Look no further at the legacy of Ronald Reagan for that. I wonder if I have been doing the same over the years and think “nope.” Kate was Kate. She wasn’t perfect, she had her flaws and areas for improvement but, overall, she was one of the kindest, most decent people one could hope to encounter, let alone befriend. And, because of that, she usually ended up in situations where she was hurt or taken advantage of. To the point of the article, if I were to expect the exact qualities in a lover as I would Kate, that would be impossible. Best friendships from childhood are special, precious and cannot be reproduced under any other circumstance – much like a gemstone. One can certainly make one in a lab but they’ll always remain lab created and not the real thing. And while lab created such-and-such has value and serves a purpose, it’s never treasured on the same level as the naturally occurring substance.

I also thought about how many times Kate and I argued. Arguing isn’t necessarily a bad thing but I find it exhausting, physically and emotionally. I feel as if it takes me longer to recover from an argument than a hard day’s work of physical labor. I also think arguing (note: not animated bickering but fully blown, nasty words exchanged, accusations lobbed, name calling and general insulting activity) is destructive. Off the top of my head – Kate and I argued twice. Once when she questioned why I went to a therapist and questioned the entire life with depression thing largely due to my making some horrendously odious and destructive decisions at the time (I hung up on her even though I knew she was correct in calling me on my shit but incorrect about the depression bit) and the other time was about the drug dealer.

After that call in July when I thought everything was settled and she was going to toss him in the fuck-and-run bin, things seemed relatively quiet with Kate. We mostly talked about work, my frustrations with being a new mom and Dock’s being away so much, some health issues we were both having and boredom. A mostly non-notable summer passed. Me in Raleigh, Kate in Atlanta (the master plan was both of us in Atlanta but I was derailed). Me being a Mommy. Kate going out and having a rip-roaring good time with her friends when she felt up to it or staying at home, being a hermit and reading books when she didn’t. It was the new normal for us since Kang’s days of debauchery were decidedly over.

September rolls around and it’s still more of the same with the minor exception of my spine getting much, much worse. Turns out – lifting a baby when your spine is disintegrating isn’t a really great thing to do on a repeated basis. Emotionally, I was on overload. I did not need another problem to manage. I simply didn’t have it within me to deal with another problem. My patience was shot. My nerves, physically, were on fire and metaphorically, were just done – over everything. As usual, Kate listened to me moan, groan and cry my way through visits with specialists and share in my delight and I was handed Rx for pain killers. One of Kate’s dirty, little secrets was a fondness for recreational use of painkillers to take the edge off. She wasn’t much of a drinker but she did have a bowl of various pills on her kitchen table. Looking back, it should have been a clue. Then, it was just amusing to me. “Here – take one of these when you get home” she would say and I would wake up three days later. Good times.

The weirdness picked up around the middle of the month as her birthday grew closer. She started calling me from work during the day. Now, I’m rotten to the core and think nothing of making a personal call during the work day. Kate, on the other hand, wouldn’t dream of breaking a rule. If I did call her during the day, she would try to limit the conversation to minutes because she was supposed to be working. My initial thought “Oh yay! She’s finally relaxing.” Another sign missed.

The day before her birthday Kate called me in the morning and she was acting considerably bizarre and exceptionally evasive. I couldn’t figure out why she called if she was completely unwilling to talk to me or tell me anything about her weekend. She also didn’t appear to be in any mood to hear about what was going on with me. Then she tells me – she saw the asshat again. After 25+ years of being best friends, I didn’t need to know much more than that. My initial assumptions were correct: she never stopped seeing him, she never stopped using and her life was out of control. I was awash in rage and back to my earlier comment about the yin-yang, being angry at Kate is like being angry at Thumper. Who the fuck gets angry at Thumper? Who the fuck gets angry at Kate? Maybe I raised my voice? Maybe I didn’t? I don’t remember exactly. What I remember, clear as day, was saying I didn’t have the time to talk about her and the non-entity and hung up. Then I dashed off one of the cruelest, harshest emails I have ever written in my life and I can write some really toxic shit when I put my mind to it.

The gist of the email was: It’s the day before your birthday and instead of acting like you’re 38 going on 39, you’re acting like you’re 18 going on 19 (or something like that). Is this how you want to age? Is this your idea of maturity? How ’bout this? Why not give yourself the best present you can? Get yourself to a qualified therapist, work through your bullshit with respect to picking loser boyfriends and friends and why your self-esteem is in the toilet. Stop doing meth, kplzthnx. I love you like a sister. I don’t want to see you dead. If you continue down this path, you’re going to be dead. PS: Don’t speak to me again until you have made an appointment with a therapist.

Her response: an email confirmation for an appointment with a therapist. And, over the ensuing months, she made sure to report in to me regarding her treatment and progress. PHEW.

In the pre-Milkface era, when issues like this arose, the solution was simple. All I needed to ask was “Do you want me to come down there?” Her response was always “No.” And I followed with “Are you certain?” Five or six hours later, I was in Atlanta. That’s the way we rolled because Kate is like everyone else on the planet. No one wants to openly admit that they want help or simply don’t want to be alone. Most people will front and say they’re just fine while secretly wishing someone will show up and rescue them from something truly awful. Yeah…shake your head no. You’re lying to yourself.

This time, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get in Astrid and blow down 85 to talk sense into her. I had Milky and a traveling husband. And something that I have never admitted to anyone before – I was genuinely afraid, too. Abusive boyfriends, I can handle. Horrible break-ups: piece of cake. General life crisis: easy-peasy-puddin-pie. Drug dealers: not my forte. Meth has always scared the shit out of me. Furthermore, I didn’t know how bad things really were. I was working with data provided to me by Kate and Kate was 414 miles away.

All that said, it is my biggest regret in life. I might not have been able to prevent the inevitable but I sure as shit could have tried. My best friend, the person with very few negative behaviors (known to me at the time) deserved that and more. And how did I respond to the person with the least negative behaviors and the least amount of character flaws in my life? I failed her. I failed her family. I failed myself. And, please, do not think this is a plea for pity or forgiveness. It’s not. It’s just a genuine statement of how I view the situation now that I have more pieces of the puzzle. Logically (and knowing what I know now), I know the battle for Kate would have been epic and I was woefully incapable of fighting it. It doesn’t lessen the sting or the sorrow, though. It certainly doesn’t lessen the yearning for a do-over, mulligan, what-have-you. Maybe, however, it does explain why the grief is as profound as it is and why this particular loss is different and thus must be managed differently, atypically.

Fuck me, right?

Look. At. The. Picture. Assholes.

Yup. I’m sprawled across the bed, perusing Better Homes and Gardens, City of Durham edition. Oh who the fuck am I kidding? There is no such thing. After today, after seeing one too many homes with one damn bathroom for a family of three (and shut your mouth, I don’t care what you think. Princess Demandy-Pants shares a bathroom with NO ONE. Not even the cats), one too many homes that need some TLC (eat a bag of dicks, realtors) or one too many homes out of my price range, I’m about to give up on this fleeting fantasy of moving closer to PCSGU. I will resume the 147 shuffle and I will like it. I will miss the gym and I will embrace the flab. I’ll get up at 04.00 instead of 04.30/05.00 when Dock is travelling so I can write the pretty stories with the hyperbolic flourish and profanity overkill. Yup. Fuck it all! Oh…and I’ll even pay through the nose when the lease on the white VW expires because heaven knows when we’ll repair that lovely dent I put in the front quarter panel of the blue VW (compliments of a garage in Durham – yet another sign I need to stay the fuck put).

Yes. Sprawled across the bed I am when I hear my son talk about the time that tickle juice (otherwise known as cortisone cream) ended up on his itty-bitty toothbrush instead of actual toothpaste. I remember this morning well.

In the audio-sound-engineering-bleeping-blooping-noise-making industry that is Dock’s, the work seems to be feast or famine. Either he’s in town and grating on my last nerve or he’s out of town on a road gig and I’m plotting his death because he left me alone to deal with *everything.* Let me say this right here, right now: if anything happens to my husband (heaven forbid), I will marry the first man I can find with a pulse, a non-negative bank account and remotely respectable credit score because I am not built for single motherhood. The man can have tombstone teeth, Leprosy and Typhoid for all I care. Just so long as he’s capable of taking out the garbage, running the vacuum and unloading heavy shit from my car – we’re good. And, it goes without saying, mad props to single moms. How you do it and not end up in a straight-jacket mystifies me. Furthermore, if you doubt me – see if I’m walking upright and speaking in full sentences at the end of this month since Dock will be away 10000% of the time. I won’t be and there’s a really good chance that I will have had to forgo the shower that day, too.

That morning was one of those that started off decently. I woke up early enough to grab several pots of coffee, read websites bearing no relevance to my job and get cracking on those wild and crazy spreadsheets I whip out at a snail’s pace only to rework and rework again. I wake up the Milkface, get him dressed, drag his blanket, select fluffies and his limp body down the stairs and force him to feed the dog. I likely kicked the dog out the door after arguing with him to drop his stupid toy which he always tries to sneak out of the house and then I focus on feeding Milky. Dishwasher (the glory hole free version) is unloaded, dishes put away, more dishes thrown at the sink, several rounds of “eat your fucking breakfast, I don’t give a single fuck about what so-and-so did at pre-k yesterday” later and it’s time to scrub up. Dollars to donuts, it was one of those mornings I said “fuck it” and threw a bra on beneath the pjs, pulled the hair up in a knot and considered myself appropriately attired for morning drop off. For some reason, I did have to take off my glasses. Milky probably spewed syrup, tears or allergy medicine in my face.

Life may begin at forty but your eyesight will fuck off at forty. Guaranteed.

Of all the things one comes to value when they turn 40 – it’s the glasses. I have had the esteemed pleasure of wearing glasses since the summer after freshman year of college. Progressive lenses, at that. But I could manage to fumble around well enough without them for a few minutes without setting the house on fire or causing bodily harm to myself or anyone else within a five mile radius. Once you’re in your 40s, things change. You need your glasses on your face all the time because everything becomes small and blurry.

Milky is at the sink and I hand him his toothbrush. I’m yelling at the dog (the dog and I, well – it’s complicated. I love him. He’s a good dog but…he is a dog and I…I am a cat person) about his stupid toy or something and I hear this retching and gagging noise followed by screaming and wailing. Milky with teary wide eyes looks up at me and says “Moooooooooooooooooooommy! This is not toothpaste!” Fuck me, right? Turns out, what comes out of the Tom’s of Maine kid’s toothpaste tube bears a strong resemblance to “tickle juice” (cortisone cream). So, on that particular morning, I inadvertently poisoned my kid.

I do not panic. I’m too cool to panic about these things. I work in healthcare! I know people! I know people who have degrees in sciency things and do the medical stuff like put bandaids on booboos and replace heart valves. And, because I know these people and I play with this shit all day long, I am :drumroll: a doctor by extension.

No. Really. My mail is addressed to Dr. High Priestess Kang. All the glory and none of the malpractice and student loans. GO ME!

Not really.

What I did do while I was certainly not panicking about potentially killing my kid was google “cortisone cream instead of toothpaste.” Turns out, I’m not the only moron on the planet. I scream “Did you swallow?” (here, have some bleach for that gutter mind of yours) and Milky responds “No but this tastes awful!” “Spit! Rinse and spit” I bark back. I rip the toxic toothbrush out of the kid’s hand and then spend the next 20 minutes trying to convince him that the new toothbrush has actual toothpaste on it and Mommy promises she won’t try to kill him again. He takes the bait and off to school we go. I spend the remainder of the day waiting for child protective services to show up and take Milky into foster care.

This evening I hear the words: tickle juice, toothpaste and Daddy. I scratch my head and holler from the room “No, Milky. Mommy tried to poison you; not Daddy.” Milky walks into the room followed by Dock. Dock turns and said “Wait…you did that, too?” Dock is the worst about wearing his glasses. Bitches and moans like you would not believe. It’s one of those things about your significant other that invokes images of their heads on pikes. Left eyebrow raised, I look over Better Crack Homes and Whore Houses of Durham Weekly and ask Dock “Did you try to kill our child with tickle juice?” Milky interjects “YOU BOTH DID!” Uh. Oh.

Silence washes over the house for the first time since 2004 when the deed was passed to us. Then, our sweet, loving, freakishly intelligent child says with his finger pointing in the air “I have a suggestion. JUST LOOK AT THE PICTURE ON THE TUBE.” And with that, two 40-somethings were given the giant bowl of STFU from a five year old. Looks like we’re getting our money’s worth from Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns. Either that or he’s morphing into a horrible smartass.

They say…

…and they are always right, aren’t they?

They say that when one resumes the “art” of writing, that the writer should be disciplined; that the writer should sit down once and day and grab some words, rearrange them into sentences which will inevitably form a paragraph which could potentially result in many paragraphs with the ideal goal of producing some sort of cogent essay or story. I was really hoping for a massively long run-on sentence and this should demonstrate exactly where my brain isn’t because I couldn’t even formulate that.

I crawled into my office this morning with a cup of coffee and a bit of grit and determination to make the words say something pretty or something repulsive. Nothing happened. I grew frustrated and started fidgeting around with WordPress which made me unpleasant and intolerable so I tried taking a nap.

Après failed nap, I waddled back into my office and resumed the exercise. Again, nothing happened.

I went downstairs, grabbed a handful of chocolate covered raisins, stuffed them in my foodhole, washed them down with water (which I always carry with me in some nalgene-ish bottle) and dragged myself back upstairs to my office. Nothing.

I turned on the tv and watched recorded episodes of The Gilmore Girls. Nothing.

I started thinking of my usual sources for inspiration but it’s a slow news day so I cannot get in touch with my inner hate. My husband and child aren’t home so I cannot start any fights with the husband and use him as a fire source. There aren’t even any annoying dogs barking in the neighborhood today. It’s just…quiet and pleasant. MEH.

In an attempt to avoid the dreaded and much feared writer’s block, I have started making notes of topics I’d like to explore further. So far, I have a few really solid ideas and a handful of 1/2-assed ones but I’m not even in the mood to work through those. These potential stories have meaning and I don’t want to water down the impact they may have because of my general ennui.

Yeah. So I just banged out 300+ words to sum up what Pinkie Pie says in one picture: