(R)evolutionary Drosophilia, Part II

I remembered this post, written while still residing in My Dream Home after a phone from Mag's to tell me that my fruit fly trap most certainly interested them but failed in its ultimate goal: to catch them. Evidently, they're just a-hanging about the rim on the paper cone I trimmed to size, laced with wine (they do love a good cab - who doesn't, ya know?) and rotting fruit. 

Where have I gone wrong? I could have sworn this worked! I even kept the cap out for Mag's, for easy disposal! So when she called, to tell me they were all just chilling on the edge? I looked this up.

Only to find, I was wrong, and Mag's should NEVER take any drosphilia advice from me, as all I managed to do was create the X-Team of friggin' fruit flies. Sorry Mag's. However, below is how I know I suck at catching the elusive, nasty, invasive and annoying beasts:

Drosophila, a small, rapidly multiplying insect, lives a very short life span. They hatch from eggs, spend the first four hours of their young lives mutating into the full-winged drosopholia shortly before it begins to eat, find a mate, and lay nearly one hundred of it’s own eggs, before lazily hovering around, and then, dropping dead. It’s fascinating, that their entire life span is twenty-four of our hours. Not even dog years. They live One Full Day.

Interestingly, you might note, I seem to know a good deal about the elusive yet much seen drosophilia. I should. We did an expirement in highschool, where each team became a parent host, and we bred them, counting them each day, four times a day, to see how quickly our species was multiplying. And, counting mutations along the way. There were several “retarded” ones - one winged wonders that were never going to fly, or reproduce; ones without heads, or feet; and a running ton that were just fine. Healthy little guys…so long as we didn’t use too much ether to knock them flat while we counted them. Flash back to the homestead:

They’ve taken over my kitchen. They pop up out of the trashcan, when it opens to receive the latest dumping of coffee grounds, or anything else unsuitable to doggie digestion. They’ve been spotted hanging out in the sink drain, and miraculously fyling free before the water hits them - but after it’s turned on. Under the cabinets, they’re hanging like bats, regardless of how much Lysol I spray under there. I think, I’m providing my own laboratory for evolution. They’re getting craftier. And, more of them are left to irritate me.

Granted, it’s summer. Fruit can no longer ripen lovingly on the counters, in big colorful bowls, begging to be added to cereal, ice cream, or eaten in passing on the way out the door. Sliced berries, sugared blueberries, fruit salad - all the trimmings and trappings of a bountiful summer lay hidden in the fridge, safe from mass-producing fruit flies invading their tender, juicy flesh.

I built a trap to catch them. I laced a water bottle with slightly-past-it’s-prime fruit (their favorite!), fitted the mouth with a paper funnel, trimmed down to allow easy access to the fruit in the bottom of the bottle, and kept the cap, for easy disposal. How long would we wait to catch some? I figured, overnight, I’d have turned my less-than appealing kitchen into a bug free zone.

And………………………………………….I would be wrong.

They evidently don’t care for the food once it’s in the bottle. Living off Lysol evidently strengthens both their immune systems, and their resolve. They’re not even investigating the bottle. I think they’re even living longer. And multiplying faster than before.

See? I’m breeding smarter fucking drosophilia.

Now, I wonder: if I trap a man in my kitchen, homosapius stupidus, do you think he’d evolve too?

Part II: Have found man....he has been in my kitchen. Seems to be evolving into someone whose company I enjoy quite rapidly. Not quite drosophilia rapid; but rapidly enough. I've near sprayed him with Lysol, and I'll be damned, he's still here. Hmm. Question is, is he evolving, or, (gasp, dare I say it?) am I?

Maybe both. 

All I'm saying, is while he can stay? I'm so not having 100 of his children.

Debts, with a side order of cheese fries...

Went on a date last night, with someone whom I found marginally boring over the phone, but, with H out of the picture for a bit, and a lack of interesting focal points on the ol’ social calendar, I figured a night spent in anyones company other than my own qualifies as refreshing, daring, and a tad dangerous. Or maybe, it’s my own company that’s dangerous…either way. I showered. Sat on the bed. Shaking. Unable to go any further.

I remembered this day, when I lived in LA, on the beach, when I had a date, with someone, and I thought I wanted to go, til I tried to get dressed. The clothes, on the bed, awaiting a sleek, newly shaved body to slip into them, the brush and blow dryer anxiously ticking away the seconds of freshly dryed hair on the counter, and I, toweled, in tears, unable to even dress.

I called my bestest pal in the world, who’d seen me through the hideous breakup of P, when I doubted I’d ever go on, unloading the whole mess of I Wish I’d Never Accepted This Stupid Date, to I’m Having A Bad Hair Moment, to that final realization, bolted out loud, that I Was Too Scared To Meet Anyone. P didn’t want me, why would anyone else? And she perservered. She talked, and laughed, and basically, over the phone, wiped my nose, helped me dress, and forced me to open the door. Oh, I didn’t date him long, but I went out. Had dinner. Laughed. Got kissed goodnight. Tucked away in the back of my brain, how much indebted to her I am.

Last night, I might as well have been ten years younger, scared witless of a harmless, shy scientist, who’d graciously invited me to dinner; at the time of acceptance, I was thrilled. He seemed fun. I was looking forward to it. Until, naturally, came the witching hour, with the showering and shaving prolonged until the hot water ran out, fingers so shrively that they nearly lost control of the hair dryer and brush. The towel, a different color this time, but tied in the same fashion draping that still maybe sleek enough but newly shaved body. And it starts. The shaking. The crying. The insane fear of dinner.

There, in my bathroom, amid piles of white towels, candles, scented sachets (to allure the house hunters, don’tcha know) I heard her voice again, warm, like honeyed satin, reminding me that it’s Just. Dinner. Whether I spilled my drink (which, wouldn’t you know, I did) or slid food across the table while slicing it (I didn’t) all I had to do was be me. Regardless of what happened, she loved me, and it’d be fine. Dating is hard. It’s scary. But it’s not rocket science. I’m not stuck there. I can leave at any time. I never really thanked her for that - the being there part, holding my hand, when I was so afraid no one would ever want to hold it or me again.

In those moments, covered in nervous goose-bumps, doubting myself, I miss her the most, and curse states like Ohio, and Nebraska, and…um….Nevada that separate her and I. She was right though, it was only dinner. With someone whom I actually enjoyed meeting. We laughed, ate, and I let him kiss me goodnight. He said he’d call; he did. He’s coming up for dinner and a movie tonight, knowing that my house has been hit by Hurricane Hunter, and that we’ll trip over legos, fur,puzzle pieces, and matchbox cars in the playroom, enroute to viewing a movie we’ve yet to select.

Too bad she’s not here. I’d have her and her to-die-for-sweet boyfriend up for moral support. Naturally, I’d have to alter the menu, and include less green items, and more fried chees items, but that’s okay. That’s what you do for best friends. Besides, of course, being there for them, when they need you the most - which in my life? Is fresh from the shower, trembling, wrinkly skinned, and doubtful.

Now, I owe her twice.

Tis that kind of day, today. So blazing is the sun that the puppies can hardly stand to be on the deck; they’d prefer instead, to bask on the cool register in the floor, sucking up the airconditioning prior to it ever reaching the rooms. They are restless, pacing endlessly between upstairs and down, lying first on one register, then another, in a bid for comfort, as well as nearness to moi. Lucy is whining, incessantly over nothing, as she too will depart with this evening amid the general confusion required when getting all four children out of this house in one fell swoop. The dog food’s at the ready, the badmitten set, with it’s birdie preched on the table, next to the board games, go fish card game, ps2, leapster and bee-pack of movies; nearly all of H’s clothes can be washed in just two loads of laundry - which honestly, strikes me as quite odd, as I’m doing so much flipping laundry, it cannot possibly all be mine.

And Gauge? Up. My. Ass.

I’ve yet to turn around and not find him wedged in my backside, his nose firmly pressed to my thighs, his tail wagging, his entire body trembling in his desire to crawl into me, and stay there. Or claw me. Either one. Horace, mopingly in search of The Coolest Register is driving me batty, but for different reasons - he’s managed to lie atop the folded pile of jammies and Whatnot that needs to go (the Maybe Needed Just Barely Fitting Jeans, the Could Be Cold Enough For Sweats with the holes in the knees, the Too Tight Jams That Are Totally Necessry) into the case, but he’s snagged them into a nest, fit just for a king.

Need I mention I just retreived them from the dryer, where they exited fur-free? I suppose not. He’s going to be with his dad, at Fish Camp, so my guess is, they’ll be fur (and heaven only knows what else) covered within minutes of his arrival, and I might as well just keep the new toothbrush and paste. I don’t see it coming home used. But I can hope.

Perhaps, if I put off packing, I can successfully put off H’s departure; I doubt it, but it’s worth a try. Then again, if I do that, then I have to put up with B being here while I finish up.

Perish the thought.

Croc o' shibbitz

I broke down.

Bought my little guy his first pair of crocs.

And the jibbitz to go on them.

I’ve heard they’re comfy. I can attest, they’re easy to clean. Owners may even Lysol them, should pungent odors rise to nauseating levels. Wear them anywhere - they count as toe-covering shoes, and thus are allowed on playground worldwide. Even considered water shoes, a staple in all sprinkler-invovled children at any daycamp or school this summer. Are they fashionable? Loads of satisfied folks will gladly shout yes from the very soles of their esconsed-in-brightly-colored-and-adorned-rubber feet.

The East Coast Jury Of One continues to deliberate where exactly comfort and style can (or, in this instance cannot ) meet.

I think they are ugly in a way not seen since the invention of the Jelly. C’mon, you remember Jelly’s. Little plastic shoes, with bubbles supporting the arch, plastic buckles attaching the straps around plump little ankles. They were all the rage back when…we said shit like “all the rage”. When it was glamorous to be so out of style, it was considered in. The ’80s leap to mind here. I think, on average, more people wore Jelly’s with their leggin’s and long shirts coupled with large belts - a fashion statment that revisited us briefly this past year. I thank whatever being lives in the Great Upstairs for it’s berevity. The Jelly I realize came alive in the late ’70s, hanging on for a bit into the ’80s, accounting perhaps for my recall. I lusted for a pair of Jelly’s, along with Dr. Scholls - both the ultimate shoe when I was young, and sadly, both just as uncomfortable. Evidently, the Croc combines a stunning lack of taste in footwear, along with comfort, air-conditioning, and pay-as-you-go addons. It’s the gardening shoes that travel out of the garden and into the city. With room for your toes to breathe.

H? Loves loves loves them. With a passion usually reserved for Jello, Star Wars, and anything furry he can name. Like navel lint. Or stuffed animals.

Yes, I’ll admit, they are a parents wet dream - a child of ANY age can slip them on and off themselves; wear the strap up, or back to cover the heel, should the Smaller Fashion Victim need the help keeping them on the toes; buy them in a larger size, and watch them outlast every other shoe on the market - honestly, Crocs look just as rediculous one extra size too big as in the correct size. This way, you small Fasionista may sport them longer - and, in a rediculous array of colors. Fuschia. Highlighter Green. Emergency Cone Orange. Livid Bruising Purple. Sadly, parents and children alike are donning these oversized foot condoms.

They’re gaining in popularity, not shrinking their market share, and slithering off into aerated oblivion.

I suppose there really is nothing to the old adage: if someone is looking at your feet you’re doing something wrong.

I’d love people to look at my feet. With their delicate arches, french pedicure, perfectly pumiced heels. Cutie heels, perhaps a bow on the toe - go on, dress up your piggies.

Just realize that a carefully selected and placed jibbitz does not count.

The Baron

Baron Von Whine-housen remains esconsed in the playroom this evening, perhaps, attempting to garner the required energy to bathe, prior to retiring for the evening. His cohort, this afternoon, Sir Tattles-A-Lot, eschewed the invitation to dinner, after dining upon two apples, half a peach served with the ubiqutious quarter of a jar of peanut butter, and returned to his domain slightly later than planned, but most assuredly, right on time.

So many things have occured to me this not-at-all-lazy afternoon, that playdates for kids inevitably end on a sour(ish) note - either hunger, pissiness, exhaustion or a combination of all three tend to leave the pre-K set strapped for a coping mechanism that doesn’t involve aggression. Like biting. And hitting. Spitting, even comes to mind here. While my two elite guests this afternoon refrained from totally mobbing each other, there certainly wasn’t a lack of baseballs being hit with a bat, striking me in the head. Twice, this occured, should you decide to keep score. One incident of major punching which resolved itself when The Baron got to go first at Candyland, as The Sir got to choose the game in the first place, skipping the coveted badmitten on the garden that His Heighness has preferred.

Yessir, we experienced a good deal of Door Slamming, Foot Stomping Rip Roaring Fun this afternoon, out here, on Longview Estates. Perhaps, in my haste to enjoy a gorgeous summer day, I inadvertantly set this in motion: a four mile walk with the estates own ponies -er- dogs, followed by three hours at the pool is quite a bit. Several runs through the sprinkler, while counting as today’s cleansing and relaxing bath, perhaps depleted us of the energy needed to do anything other than throw ourselves down on the rug, and have a good ol’ fashioned kicking and screaming fit.

Now, I’m allowing the Powers That Be (that would be ME) to dictate the remainder of our delicately settling evening - a cool glass of something liquid is in order, I believe, perhaps even with a little kick to it. Something more offending than ice, but less toxic that arsenic - with a side of benedryl for the Baron.

There are some days, that I want to just shake this friend of mine, until she gets it. She had two boys. P, and S. Aged nearing 4, and 2 1/2, respectively. They have NO rules. Oh, she bitches about their behavoir, but she’s yet to make that connection between how she’s not raising her boys, and how they fail to be good (or even barely passable) members of society. Case in point: P gets removed from camp today, for biting, and punching. This is before the swearing, and disrespect to authority figures. She calls me. Lets loose.

My mistake?

I asked her what she planned to do to punish him, and she says (I shit you not) “I’m not really sure.”

I expect this to be followed swiftly with several suggestions on her part, for appropriate punishment. Something to drive it home, without a shadow of a doubt, that THAT IS NOT ACCEPTABLE BEHAVOIR.

Silence.

She’s got….nothing.

The further you get from this incident however, the less effective the punishment is going to be. Trust me on this one. I have a five year old. One that gets invited to bday parties, playdates, gymnastic classes, and meets little friends everywhere he goes. He’s not always been so socially accepted: some of you might recall the horror and nightmare I lived through when he got expelled for biting. At a YEAR old. How we got asked (and then told, in some instances) to leave the program we payed to attend, as in, RIght This Very Second. I recall, vividly, my lack of outside stimulation, and the resulting depression that gripped us both that winter, because, really, there is nothing quite like a biter. It’s right up there with having to put a bell around your neck, and scream Leper!! as you round a corner. Worse yet, you can try to hide your biter, in non-descript clothing, but you’ll never really succeed. The playground will still clear when your car pulls in, party invitations dry up, and even family has issues with taking on your child.

Which is where she is; the difference, you might notice, is that my child outgrew (with some extra-firm assistance, might I add) his ugly habit before his second birthday. This kid? Been biting for years. Punches. Swears. Is a total brute of a kid, with an attitude. Granted, some of it is personality - he’s a bit stubborn, and he likes having his own way. I see corporate bigwig writen all over him, if he stops tasting the competition. Her own family won’t even babysit, and she thinks they are being judgemental!

I took a deep breath, and forged ahead - and no, I may not get a return call from her for a bit yet. I told her, that her friends and family are a good barometer for her child’s ability to “make nice and play with others” a skill that will stand him in good stead for places like kindergarten, soccer, playdates, bday parties, being anywhere really. Getting a handle on his bossiness (read: he orders her around like nothing I’ve ever seen, and I was married to the worst offender - this kid has B nearly topped) and his “behavoir quirks” are going to the be the one point that keeps him from being anything other than home-schooled.

Mostly, it boils down to, she cannot handle him. I know, that sounds bad. And I feel badly for saying it - but she’s either got to put her foot down, and a boot up his ass, or get ready for some serious alone time. I’m the last friend she has, that has kids, that will be with her kids on an outing. My patience is starting to wear thin…and not just with P. I find it quite tough to deal with her, when her child is nasty to me or my son, and she refuses to do anything, but then sulks when I do say something to him. She wants the chance to dicipline him - go for it! But then, for fuck’s sake, DO.

I’m no longer going to dismiss his punching my son when he doesn’t get his way, as it’s a phase he’ll outgrow, or, my other favorite, I’ve talked to him. He’s not 30. He doesn’t give a rats ass what you think - you’re not getting through. The thing with parenting this type of issue, I’ve discovered (and, there is a wealth of information from respected professionals in the field that support this - where do you think I learned it?) is this: you need a two pronged attack. One, surprise is your best weapon. Your brat really doesnt’ buy that you’re going to do whatever it is you just said you were going to do. Second, go for the jugular. Tell him his tv watching days are over. Then prove it. Unplug the tv - or, better yet, (and yes, I did do this) cancel the cable. That’ll really get him going. Now. Go into your bomb shelter, and wait for the sure to result pre-K fallout.

And this is where I’m really pissed at her - there. is. no. follow. through.

When I tell H that he’s lost his tv, that means, I’ve lost it too. At least til he crashes. She doesn’t ascribe to “putting herself in jail” as she calls it.

I wonder, do you think she knows that in the state of MA, if her child is under the age of 12, and seriously injures another child she’s held accountable?

When P attacks someone, (or eats them, which is really only a matter of time) she won’t be putting herself in jail.

Some other mother will do it for her.

She can, I suppose, worry about “handling P” however she sees fit, as soon as she’s released.

J came over last night!! Skipped the coffee, which was fine - I’d forgotten to wash the filter anyway - and we chatted, kissed, hung out, made out on the couch like teeny-boopers (which I’ve never done, really, without it going somewhere - which it didn’t) and all the while, I feel like he’s 20 degrees off. Like he’s not quite himself.

Okay, so it’s been three weeks since he’s seen me in any capacity, so maybe that’s part of it - but then, in a total fit of I’m A Nosy Girl, I Cannot Leave Well Enough Alone, I sent a late night text, just to check on him - and he’s afraid that I’ll want to go faster than he is! Which is quite amusing. As …… I don’t.

I like things the way they are. The fact that I never have to worry about it going too far, or the ramifications of where we’d be, with three kids in the middle, and two crazy ex’s and that he’s not about to have any more kids. I did ask him, why on God’s Great Green Earth he’s think that I was already so far ahead? He’s the one that talked about not wanting any more kids, and I do. He’s the one that was using sentences starting with “in a couple of months…” not I. So it’s mostly against my nature to not jump first and see where I’ll land later; but this time around, I suppose, I’m older, wiser. Or really, a lot less limber.

I no longer have it in me to leap off emotional cliffs without at least peeking over the edge - and, as S always tells me, why get ahead of yourself? Just see where it goes. It may go nowhere. We may just end up great friends, who’ve made out a couple of times. Who like to laugh, and get along really well.

On the one hand, he’s right: the kid issue looms large if this goes anywhere. But. I feel as though they’re bigger fish to fry at the moment - like how he uses words that I consider a little…offputting. Sexy, kind of? But, mostly not. That he’s all about communication, but then clams up on me, and won’t talk to me.

But mostly, I think for the first time, I’m less worried about what he thinks of ME, and more concerned with what I think of HIM.

I think he’s a great kisser. And, he makes me laugh. It’s enough.

Parenting for Dummies, and Pole Dancing...

…can both be found at Barnes and Nobles, in the self-help section.

Now, this is important for two reasons: one, I was quite worried I was going to have to traipse, incognito into Adam and Eve, this sex shop out here, to find a funny, yet still presentable 40th bash gift. I’d considered nipple tassles, but when I checked online, it said they were backordered. A Guide To Pole Dancing, it is. As Mags is a bit on the conservative side, I figured this was perfect. It’s even illustrated…by this little chickadee (with a perfect body, of course) in a bikini and pole, and all moves are subdiveded down into three parts. Really. Any idiot apparently, can pole dance. Evidently, at least according to this source, the difficulty lies in adding horrifically ugly, and disgustingly high heels into the mix of hip flings, gyrations, and upper-thigh moves I’ve not seen since the last time I gave birth.

Secondly, this particular book was nestled right next to the Parenting For Dummies book, which makes me wonder if there is something besides organization by alphabet going on here. Like…maybe, you get the pole dancing book? And then once you mastered the moves? You’d clearly have to move down the shelf a bit, since that one time, when you did the Dancing Diva move, you really broke some records (and something latex perhaps) and now, you’re in the market for the next volume on the shelf. Puts a whole new spin on Up The Pole, now doesn’t it?

I had a hard time as it was, keeping a straight face while perusing the manual, as this woman next to me kept staring over the edge of her PC For Dummies volume, sporting both a look of utter revulsion, and curiousity. She kept edging closer to me, while I shifted my weight away from her; her censorus looks were really starting to annoy me - honestly, if I wanted to buy that for myself, say, as a weight-loss limbering up exercise book, I’d be fully within my rights. She got so close, that I could feel her breath on my arm. The one holding the book up so I could turn the page - which is when I ever so not causally reached out and handed her one of her own to check out. She dropped it as though I’d burned her with a branding iron. How is reading over my shoulder while holding a slightly more mundane volume really any better than touching the book herself? I kept waiting for her to ask me to either turn the pages faster, or demonstrate some of the moves.

Needless to say, I left, book in hand, along with the request for a gift receipt, gift bag, and tissue paper. Yes, I realize that I’m a grown-up, and as such, should be able to purchase said manual without being the least embarrassed - and I’m not. So long as that smarmy guy who always stares at me behind the counter realizes that it’s a GIFT, and not something I EVER intend to do, say, for….him. Yes, sadly, he’s asked me out before, and not just once. Like a couple of times. My excuses border on the Incredibly Lame, as it’s really not in my nature to hurt anyone’s feelings; I hardly could come out and tell him that I find being in his presence the same as visiting the morgue naked. Or, that the way he licks his lips reminds me of two slugs, stapled to his teeth, getting slimed. Instead, I’ve told him this last time, (he naturally had to ask me about the book…and it’s intended recipiant, followed by inviting himself along to the party as my date) that while part of me was ready to resume dating the rest of me, wasn’t playing along.

He told me he had a “little something” that could help with that, and I’d be back to good as new in now time.

While attempting to make my great escape, I realized that I am now sandwiched between Slug Lips, and Curious Uptight Prude, who is still leaning over my shoulder to get a better look at the cover, and Slug Lips is holding up the manual, in a manner that suggests only that he is showing it to every last human being in the store. You know the pose…nearly over his head, asking me if I want a bag.

Which is when, it finally hits me: there is a book missing, between Pole Dancing, in it’s glorious pink and silver lame cover, and Parenting For Dummies, in it’s signature yellow - the Please Mind Your Own Fucking Business, Emily Posts’s daughters newest, latest and greatest self-teaching manners guide.

I’d write it myself, including things like, Chapter One -Grow A Set: Handle Your Own Erotic Novels and Manuals, and How To Not Make A Scene When Cutting Off The Balls Of The Cashier at Barnes And Nobles, Who Constantly Makes A Pest Of Himself.

It might be the next best seller.

Right after, naturally, the Guide to Pole Dancing.

Just a quickie: I think the dogs are glad to be home. So far, there’s spilled water on the floor, kibble dotting the hallways, and already? Four trips in and out of the house. To bark. At something. I’m not really sure what. Could be the moths, which for some reason drive Horace batty. Flies? Eaten. Misquitos? Delicious. Moths? Hunt them down, and scare them away with loud, repetative barking.

Which is funny, as Gauge, who is my resident Loud Mouth, is having none of it. He could care less at this point that the other two morons are outside, barking for all their worth. I cannot decide if he just missed me, and wants to be near me, especially when the other two are not vying for my attention; or, if he’s just so damn thrilled to have air conditioning again.

I must admit, I missed them. The loud water slurping from the bathroom at all hours, the sound of thier clicky little paws running rampant through the house. However. I’m sitting here, watching Horace, who thinks I’m not looking, pull all the delicate white laundry out of it’s basket, pile it onto the floor, and slowly lower himself onto it. It’s moments like this, watching his hips lower with aching slowness, that I notice his age; how much he’s slowed down.

I should be pissed about the laundry; the fur embedding itself into lilly pulitzer white polos, and undies. His claw marks leaving snags in a couple of bras. But honestly, seeing him as an old man today put things into a whole new perspective.

I can be pissy about the fur tomorrow. I can always buy new bras. Hell. Lucy ate more furniture than Hoarce could damage in my underwear any day of the week.

Tonight, I think I’ll just hope he feels up to climbing the stairs, and coming to fur-up the bed with me.

There’s the guy, that’s always with his kids, at the park, the pool, the ice rink, the beach. He plays with them, tirelessly, packs healthy snacks that are not only fun to eat, but delicious, knows when and how to change the baby, on the picnic table seat, and rivals me in the ability to do said activity while said child is standing, squirming, totally focused on anything other than standing still. He has three kids. Two adorable little girls, and a boy, that gets along famously with his Evil Twin, er, my little guy.

And, an adorable wife.

Nope, I’m not lusting after him.

It’s something far sinister in nature.

I seethe with envy, total unbridled jealousy everytime I see them. Especially when they’re together.

She’s your typical high-powered paycheck, who not only excells at her job, but thrives; as the munchkins do in Daddy’s care. They’re the typical well-balanced couple - beyond your syrupy sweet I Can Finish His Sentences stage, and into the They Obviously Communicate Smug Affectionate Couple.

I hate them.

Or more specifically, I truly enjoy their company, and their children, but I despise being reminded, so vividly, of what I thought I was getting, and the family I thought I was creating. I wanted to be the one pushing the swing, while manning the slide, and calling out over the soccer fields, waiting for Mr. Damn Near Just Shy Of Fucking Perfect came out after work to meet me. With a bag full of cut baby carrots, and fresh strawberries, washed and hulled. He’d dole out juice boxes and margarita’s (in a handy dandy carry mug) with equal aplomb, taking over the pushing and slide management, so he didn’t miss out on the fun.

Along with all that, comes a beyond healthy dose of Guilt, Shock and Disgust at my own shortcoming, for being envious of a relationship I truly want to emulate one day - only, I’ll be a brunette, and not her dirty-something-or-other-blonde. She’s genuinely caring, nice, open, friendly. He’s a genuinely nice guy, thoughtfull, nurturing, clued into his emotions and stuff.

He even stocks MY brand of juice boxes in his pack.

So today, when I spotted them at the pool, as did my gf, with her kids, she watched me interact with them (their youngest cannot get enough of me) and asked me later when I was going to finally get over my Family Envy. I’d have it some day. With the right guy. And no, she didn’t think they’d even have a clue, it’s only because she’s known me for seven plus years that she even picked up on it, which makes me feel both better and worse. Better, that maybe, they really don’t have a clue, and worse, that Family Envy is still rearing it’s ugly head.

Funny thing is, it’s only this family.

So maybe, I’m supposed to be the high-powered paycheck, and he’s supposed to stay home with the kids? I’m not entirely sure. All I know is, if I ever step foot in their house, and he pulls out margarita’s, already made and frozen, hands me one in a travel mug, I might just give up entirely and live in the land of the Seriously Jealous, instead of the Insanely Envious.

Just Because Flowers= Instant Gratification

So the absolute worst thing about being single?

Having to buy your own flowers. Roses. To be exact.

Oh-kay. Fine. So I needed them for the broker’s open house tomorrow, but still. (add in a huffy breath, if you wouldn’t mind). I had to buy them myself. Now, I’m convinced (mostly, I think in that grass is always greener on the other side of the fence thing here) that if I were together, or married, dating, or at least sleeping with someone (sleeping, in the fun nekkid sense; not the relaxing, naked sense) they’d have brought me the flowers. Out of kindness. Or thanks. Or for the sheer reason that they want to get me nekkid again, so they’re sucking up, as they know I love love love flowers, and clearly, this could be the way.

If you ask the guy who sent me flowers out of the blue for my birthday last year, for the scant period of time we dated, he did indeed profit from said roses. All 31 of them that got sent to the house. But. I think I’m losing the plot here. And since he turned out to not only be a troll, but also really small in the way only a guy can be small (but, huge wallet - totally didn’t even out) I think we’ll pass on further comments regarding him.

And, get back to …… ME. So I went to Walmart. The Super Walmart, that opened not too long ago, and while the freaky lady with no teeth to speak of accosted us when we got through the door, and, the lemons looked horrendous, they were having a HUGE killer deal on roses. Which I’m using to grace the dining table, set for four, if any of you would like to stop by. Only, if you do, don’t touch anything. I. Mean. Anything.

I bought grapefruit and clementine oranges to go in the big bowl on the counter, to bring out the zeal of the green countertops, and white and yellow roses - it says welcoming, and warm; thoughtful, friendly, and a little zip. But not red. Red roses scream too much Buy This House!!! I’m Fucking Desperate! Whereas yellow and white? Exude that whole…I’m for sale, but I don’t have to be. Just look. Oh, and, if you want me? You’re going to pay full price.

At least, that’s what I’m going with.

While kicking myself for not even being taken enough for someone to get me the flowers even if they were really getting them for the open house. At this point, I’m not picky. I mean, I’m not getting any anyway, flowers, or the other - so just having a strange man deliver flowers to go on a table, who doesn’t want anything whatsoever to do with me might still get lucky.

Unless he’s a total troll. And small. Though I’m not sure how you work that into a conversation…though really, it should be a requirment. You know. Like some major or minor surgeries are.

I’m blonde, blue eyed, and I have a really small penis. But, I give great oral.

Or, I’m blonde, blue eyed, and I’m not circumsized. (for the record? hoods belong in the inner city, or on the back of sweatshirts. not anywhere near my mouth)

Even better though, I think I might even take: I’m blonde, blue eyed, give great oral, love to buy flowers, but, I’ve a small penis.

THAT guy just might make it through the door.

Naturally, that puts me right back at the beginning - I dated THAT guy, and where did it get me? No closer to ending the draught that’s plagued this side of the country for quite some time, and I STILL don’t see any flowers that I didn’t have to buy myself.

For that guy who says if you want them that badly buy them for yourself, you’ll still love them? Trust me on this one: you so don’t. You cannot duplicate the surprise, the fun, the …. resulting oral of the Just Because Flowers.

So. Be a Man. Stop on your way home. Count on a blowjob. Buy. Her. Flowers.

Back Flips and Bloody Noses

Teaching small children the fine art of the underwater backflip is not for the faint of heart.

First, you must put your Water Retaining Belly Pouching Over The Edge Of Your Bikini clad body in the water. The freezing cold, just filled from the well water. The water, hovering at a brisk 62 degrees. Mind you, it’s blisteringly hot and humid out, which is akin to wearing a wet, furry dog around your entire body, all day - so part of you wonders if it will be refreshingly wonderful to nip into the deep end, executing a gracefull backdive off the board. You hitch up the suit. (ahem. the very suit that is rolling over itself in an attempt to get away from your tummy) Delicately balance on the edge of the board. Survey the water.

Get down off the board, and kindly skim the water, as it’s so kind of Jack to loan the pool out, you don’t even have to call! You can just show up, with screamingly excited child in tow, and jump in. Or about. Your choice.

Which is about all the stalling you get, when an antsy five year old is splashing and whining from the shallow end.

(pay close attention to the words shallow end)

Oh, I tiptoed around a bit, and dug out more bugs, rescued a frog. Got back up on the board. Bounced a few times, to get the feel of it, you know, and finally, plunged off, only to come up wondering if I’d capped my nipples in steel, and was going to use them to gouge out holes in the driveway. Every last hair on my body stood on end, and I swear, this is the exact feeling that Ted Williams felt right as they lowered him into that cryogenic chamber.

Once the teeth chattering came to an end, I embarked on the task of teaching H to do a backflip. And underwater one. I demonstrated how to hold our breath, and we practiced, bobbing up and down in the water like a couple of loons, out looking for a meal. And then. It happened.

I showed him how to do it. Lean back. Place your head in the water. Kick off the bottom.

Discover that the shallow end really is SHALLOW only after smacking my face on the bottom of the pool. I came up, completeing the form in excellent shape, to mass hysteria and genereal screaming on H’s part.

The bloody nose and teeth do not, evidently, inspire confidence in the pre-K set.

Christ Almighty. I thought I’d been hit by a mack truck, which I suppose, isn’t far off. The bottom of a pool, placed in concrete weighs about the same, I’d say.

I’m now sporting two bruised lips, and an ouchy nose.

All I can say is, this swimming day is flipping over.

So what, exactly, does one do with all the wedding things from the first marriage?

Okay, so I’m leaving room here, for another one, you know, just on the off chance it occurs. But still. My question remains - my sister is getting married in November, and while I’m thrilled for her? It’s also dredging up all this stuff that I cannot seem to get a handle on. Like now that we’re ordering D some engraved wedding champagne flutes of her own, the same kind she ordered for me and B, and decided she wanted too, my other sister calls. To ask me to (and I shit you not) dig out my glasses, so she can duplicate the script, and how the date was. She’s got all these questions - how tall are the glasses, and how heavy? What does it look like, with both of our names on there? Should we actually write out the and in between their names, or use the ampersand?

I’m totally gobsmacked. One, that I could lay my hands on the box in which they live. Two, that I’ve not smashed them into smitherines, like nearly everything else he’s broken in my life. I’m standing, on the cell phone, in the kitchen, this box opened on the stove, staring into them, with hands shaking - and I don’t want to touch them. As though they’re contaminated. Naturally, I cannot answer her, for both the enormous lump in my throat, and because the damn script is hidden by this stupid fucking cardboard flap, so I’ve no choice but to take them out.

Sigh.

I did the right thing. I took out the glasses. I gave her the info. And now, with them still wrapped snuggly in their box, with this bright white, virginal pre-wedding-looking ribbon on it, I’m sitting here, trying to recall how to breathe.

Really, a littlle anger does wonders warming the cockles of my heart, setting it pumping as though I’ve just run a marathon, and while I’m well on my way to an anxiety attack that might just, if I’m lucky, kill me, the seeing red thing just might save me.

Still. What am I supposed to do with all this shit? The wedding photos. The stupid fucking glasses. The wedding dress, which is still hanging in my closet. The left over invites, Hunter and Riley’s little outfits and shoes. Sure, they’re all packed up, neatly in this big, old fashioned suitcase, but what do I do with the stuff that really, I’ll NEVER use? Drinking out of the toilet (or communal water bowl, depending on the company) is a more likely prospect than those glasses ever reaching my lips.

Part of me though, can’t abide the thought of tossing them, like I’m denying that my marriage ever occued - which obviously, as I’m making a set of lawyers very wealthy, in did indeed occur - and you cannot undo history. Nor, evidently, can you unetch the glasseware.

Cookies, coffee, lip gloss

Last night, while navigating the intensly overwhelming emotional rollercoaster known as Life With My Ex, or, more aptly, the soap Opera version, As The Stomach Churns my phone buzzed.

I’ve got it on vibrate. You know, so it’s loud cheerful chirping and cute ringing doesn’t dislodge me from my full on Pity Party For One. I assumed that it was B, doing something completely stupid….again….and I’d have to go take care of it. Or his providing an actual itinerary for his comings and goings this weekend - but then, that would be planning and forthought, and we all know he’s not capable of either. I suppose it could have been E, whom I texted earlier, to see if he’d meet me for a beer - what with needing a friend and all. I had sent him one, telling him I just didn’t want to be alone, yesterday was just too hard, but his gf, that he’s considering dumping for the sheer reason that she thinks they’re attached at the hip, all the time, and he’s got no space was over, thus we’ve postponed.

I was still Angry Knitting, while watching Grey’s Anatomy, still slamming back chocolate chip cookies like shots. Nothing else was on after that - a CSI, but I’d already seen it, E was with Clingy Von Trapp, so I considred grabbing a beer to compliment my dinner of chocolate bar, and sleeve of cookies. (Really, what else did you expect on the menu at a full blown pity party for one?)

Picked up my phone, after surrendering the cookies and remote, only to find that J was back in town!! And, he missed me. Which slowed, significantly, the flow of cookies from the couch cushion to the yap, as karate is coming up next week, and I don’t need to put on any more weight. I think, I actually smiled, for the simple pleasure of hearing from him.

Which reminds me.

I really missed him! Not just the kissing part, though I won’t complain if he’d like to play a little catch-up, mostly, I missed his company. That unique brand of humor, and cop-voice, and bossiness he displays at work, but he lets me boss him around a bit, the swapping of off-color jokes, and swearing while running several miles. I love that he makes me smile just anticipating his text response, and that really, while B and His Stupid Family may never have thought I was enough, clearly other people did, and do. Okay. So I’m not totally over my issues with that.

it sure helps though to wake up to a wonderful text, where it starts out, Hey Beautiful.
Who doesn’t like to wake up to that?

He’s working tonight. Wonder if that means I should put on some coffee around ten.

And some lip gloss. You know. Just in case I get a kiss goodnight

Enough?

You know what the most depressing sound in the world is?

The slam of the cardoor, on the morning you drop your son off at school, when his dad is gonig to pick him up, and he turns and waves at you. Not hug. No kiss. A wave. He’s too big these days for public displays of affection; or so he says, when he’s up and running and fine. When he’s not, or he’s fallen, or sick, or just plain miserable, then it’s okay to cling to me.

Today, he told me to just go, he could handle being at school, as, afterall, Daddy was coming to pick him up. For the Whole Weekend. Like I didn’t already know.

I’m the one that packed the bag you know. I’m the one that packed the Cute Outfit, to go to B’s family’s annual bbq/beer bash for the 4th, being hosted this Saturday, where he’s taking the newest girlfriend, or, as Michele and I refer to her, Ex-Wife Number Three. Oh. Did I forget to mention he’s bringing her here? To meet me?

More accurately, I think, to rub my nose in it. And this whole thing, while I say I’m fine with it, is starting to eat at me. Not that he’s found someone else, more than his family with love her as she’ll arrive with a halo on, while I’ll still remain the Horrendous Schemeing Home Wrecking Second Wife, with Gold Digging Tendencies.

Which really, is the crux of the issue, the one thing I’ve yet to fully recover from: the Not Being Enough.

Not enough for him, to want to get better, or get a grip, or stay medicated; not worth enough for him to respect my opinion, boundries, wishes or desires, not enough for him to stand up to his mother, his dad, his horrendous Aunt and Uncle. And while I’ve managed to forgive, and to some extent, forget the stuff that happened while we were married, this one part I cannot seem to let go. In his mind, I wasn’t enough of a parnter, wife, friend, or mother.

And yeah, so my mom’s visit didn’t really assist me here, as we all know just how insideous our parents can be when left to their own devices, and refuse to see past the Game Face, and accept their children for who they are.

So today, listening to that puff of air float off his waving hand, the door slam a distant echo in the parking lot, his little voice and big eyes telling me, after begging me at home to stay a while in class, that he didn’t need me - that all followed me. First, to the bank, to make a deposit. Pass on the sucker; he’s at school. And to CVS, to drop off the photos - his school and karate graduation - where I ran into B’s dad, who blantently asked me if I was paying for reprints, so they could have some too, all I can hear is the door slamming echo. The Daddy is picking me up Mommy, don’t you worry about me, sing-songing in my head.

So I did what any decent, totally worthy human being would do:

I went home. To bed. Ignored the phone. And stayed there.

I’ll get up, I’m sure.

When I feeling up to being Enough.

With a side serving of guilt, please

There’s a moment, when every family member becomes a guest and, well, to be honest?

You wish they’d leave.

Oh, you love them, and all their idiosyncratic crap, but truly, enough of hearing them putter around the house at four am because they can’t sleep, making coffee, and ostensibly “helping you” by insisting that you let them undo the dishwasher, when they’ve nothing to do to occupy their time before they get you up. Which, they’ve already done, by banging the sliverware into the drawer, allowing it to echo up the stairs, alerting a small, nearly not-sleeping being into full wakefullnes…before the blasted sun is even up. So, you find yourself, at the mercy of a Serious Morning Person, who’s already five cups of coffee ahead of you.

Think….uptight poodle, on crack.

The best part? It’s now, maybe, (and I stress maybe) five am. I’m sipping my first cup of coffee (and she finished off all the cream) while curled up half dead in a chair in my kitchen, only to find her telling me what I’m going to do today. Empty out this box. Go through that pile of stuff. Look at the items rescued from the backseat (or Hunter’s Domain) of the truck….and then, I’m supposed to thank her for bossing me around, or, in her words, “assisiting me in finally getting organized”. This from a woman who has seven months of mail sorted on her dining room table, and puts it into laundry baskets prior to big holiday meals!

My absolute favorite - so I’m going through all this stuff, simply to keep her quiet, as I’m not up for yet another conversation with her about boundries, and respecting them; or how much like B she is in this moment. Or several of them. As I’m thinking that, she turns to me, sits in the chair opposite, takes my hand (a dreaded signal, mind you) and says to me, she is just shocked, that I ever ended up with a man who bossed me around, was controlling, micrmanaging, among his other really nasty habits.

And I swear, I’m blaming this on the lack of fully creamed coffee in my system: I said, “Hmm. Interesting. You cannot abide a man who steps on your toes, when it comes to telling me what to do”. All this crap she feeds me about helping me out, and I just have such an attitude about it - well, can you blame me? If she’s doing the laundry, it’s just tell me what can go in the dryer - this? this? this? this? this? Wait, I know you just sat down, but really, I need you to move that, and this, go through that pile I erected for you….it was like having two five year olds with ADHD disorder, not medicated, on frosting. Full time.

She never sits still.

At the crux of this, is perhaps some of my issue: when she’s around, I feel as though I’m the laziest human being on the planet, a feeling she adores, and runs with. Oh, she covers it with a thin veneer of I’m Trying To Be Really Helpfull but it’s mostly that she needs to be needed - and then, when she burns people out, she’s all hurt, and dishing out the guilt in giant helpings.

But. It’s Sunday night. The house is blessedly quiet; I’m going upstairs, in a moment, to tuck in the little guy, knit for a bit, and hope that my shoulders come down from their post above my ears. The plane left this evening.

And yeah, I called to make damn sure it got off the ground.

Right before I picked up some cream, so that I can have the good cup of coffee tomorrow morning.