Black Hole

I'm fairly certain I've stopped breathing. I do know I'm drooling, as my jaw dropped about as far as it can go these days, right about the time my eyes glazed over.

I waded hip deep into my son's room - apparently, his dresser and closet had that horrific Noro Virus, and vomited everywhere. Infected everything else in there, so it too vomited all over rug, beds, dresser top, window ledge....

Sucked in breath. Gave rise to white hot I think I've set my hair on fire kind of breathing. The Not Good Kind, as Fox would say.

What. The. Fuck.

What really gets my goat?

He is never in there.

He goes once in the am, to get clothing (that is, if he's not dressing off of the Great Moving Clothing Sculptured Blue Chair) and perhaps once at night, for pjs.

I'd like to know what in hell goes on it there to make this much mess, with so few visits to this room! The loft, where he occasionally starts off sleeping (do make note of the starts off) remains more organized than the Black Hole Of Death, as he refers to his room.

He hates it not, mind, because it's blue, or that it has bunkbeds, not because it's girly - it is not - but because it's upstairs.

Okay. I can accept that he'd prefer to sleep on the same floor as me; but really? We're a ceiling apart, and honestly, that's not even my issue - seriously, what the hell is he doing to make this kind of disaster? And when? He's never in there!

The bath?

Please.

He's a guy. Or at least a budding one.

His bath should look like the sty that it is. I give high marks for the "hung up" towel, as it is, indeed, off the floor, not draped over the bed. Boy's sinks should be filled with partially brushed toothpaste slugs, the over-crust of Listerine kid's flouride rinse, and foamy dried soap rings - hey, it's living proof he's a, brushed his teeth, and b, washed his hands, after he's used a toilet normally seen in rotting row houses in Greek college life.

I'm totally okay with his bathroom, aka The Swamp.

Yes, the toilet needs a good scrubbing (which may induce my gag reflex, but hey, at least he's used it - there's a kid down the street who prefers to go Al Natural, if you get what I mean), Spiderman body wash oozes ever so slowly towards the final goal of the drain, which won't allow anything to pass, as the army men in there are doing a fabulous job blocking it.

I'm not even questioning the Victoria Secret Catalogue I found, as it's been drawn on.

No, not in a creepy way - he's given most of the models mustaches and beards, horn's on their heads, and hair on their over-air-brushed bodies.

Since it's right next to the Ranger Rick's mag, I'm gathering I've nothing to worry about, til the pen ceases to show up in the VS mag.

It's The Room. My Inner Mom Voice had plenty of time being an Outer-Mom voice because really? What the fuck does he do?! There's hangers trailing off the ladder to the bed - which is on it's side, FYI, on the lower bed (?? yeah, I don't get that either), all the books are in some random order, either on one bed, the other, the floor, on in the closet - which is great that something is in there, as the fucking clothing is not!

It's all over the beds, the floor, piled on his desk, overflowing from the basket I'd not only neatly folded and organized for being put away, but heaved up there yesterday - YESTERDAY! He didn't even go up there!

To top it all off, his goddamn hamster, Cookie, is anything but. He's a GIANT pain in the ass. He's noisy. And smells funny - that lady, Kristy, at PetSmart, who swore that this spray kept him smelling fresh? she LIED - he likes to eat on the run - that does explain the sunflower seed pods on his floor, along with oodles of this fluff I didn't originally recognize.

I'm drawing a veil over the disgustingly rotted sippy cup I found up there - normally, I'll wash and save anything (if you read My Life is Shit? you already know this) - it hit the trash without a moment's hesitation.

For the record? All you "Thoughtful Relatives" who feel the need to overwhelm my son (ME) with games that have a zillion parts, or (God help me) shit to paint, with fucking glitter in it (GLITTER! I swear, they have kids, I know what I'm sending: 9000 piece puzzles, bead kits, art supplies loaded with glitter not in the pens, but in the big containers, ensuring loads of vaccing in every orifice of your home) just realize, that revenge is a bitch.

I've stepped on lego bits, one thumb tack, and puzzled over a piece to something....I gave up, and shoved it in a drawer - which is where all of his clothes are going next.

I thought I'd take a moment to calm down.

Wait until noon, when it's okay to have a belt of vodka, and wade in again.

Then, I'll have a plan of attack.

One: clothes up, into drawers, or thrown in closet. With hangers. Maybe they'll hang themselves. God know's I'm close enough to that.

Tow:Vacuum floor, ignoring noises made by implement not expecting to suck K-nex magnets off the floor, along with lego bits, dried up gummy worms, Cracker Jacks, seed pods, fluff and the ubiquitous dog fur - or whatever else it comes across under the bed - I'm not looking there first. I figure, if I don't look, I'll be less likely to swear. Can't say the same for vac, though.

Three: belt another vodka, in celebration I came out alive.

And that since he's at school?

So has my child.

Recycling in hell

I'm a total sweetie.

I went to take all my accumulated recycling to the center to recycle, as I'm all planet conscious - so, okay, I've not gone since Easter, and there's quite a bit of it, and I rather tend to have all my cooking/cereal boxes nested inside each other like nesting dolls - but that really old guy that works there?

He's a real tool.

Our town pays him, to sit out there, and do stuff. Breaking up boxes leaps to mind here. So when I take my third load out of the car, into the ungodly heated day and he comes up to snipe at me about not breaking them down appropriately? I was polite. Well. Sort of. I mean, it did flash through my head to tell him that this was his job and he's paid by my taxes to do this. But I restrained. I replied something along the lines of gee, I'd no idea. (add big innocent blue eyes)

When I went to take the bottles and cans no one else was going to recycle, and he yelled at me, I sort of calmly, in my nicest I'm Going To Eviscerate You Voice, said that Henry, who usually works on Tuesday, let's my son take them all the time. He's saving up for something big you know. Teaching kids about the value of a dollar they had to work hard for - yep, our Henry's behind that work ethic all the way.

Asshole today? Nope. It's his coffee fund. Well. I'd had it in mind to go get the man an iced coffee, with cream and sugar on the side, as it's such a hot day out, and I'd felt rather badly that he was out there, alone, with no one to talk to - but no more. I dropped my non-cash earning bottles with particular force, tossed in some totally not broken down boxes on the top of the pile so he'd have to climb to get them, threw my paper haphazardly into the front of the dumpster, because really, his attitude totally inflated my Petty Bone.

I'd had Pucker with me, but she's not terribly threatening, even in the dark, so she was totally useless to me in this situation.

A few calm, air-conditioned breaths later, I arrived at the grocery store to recycle the glass, plastics, and cans. As an elderly man was tottering up behind me, in a sweater no less, I was worried he might possibly stoke out on his way to getting enough cash together to go buy the dog food he may be living on, as his 401(k) most likely tanked. I'm so gracious, I do the bottles and the plastic, noting of that of the two can eater machines one is full, wait until he's finished, and glide into place to drop in my cans.

Two cans in?

The machine is full.

In case you can't tell? My dander's way up. I go inside to tell the service personnel that it's full - let's just say, I wasn't serviced. After yelling down the aisle of cashiers only to find the most recent hire who's selected to do this hideous job was out on break. I could come back in a hour, or like, you know.

To top it all off, I went into a store I won't mention (Hope Depot) in a cutie little skirt, white tank, showing a hint of cleavage (the amount I managed to siphon into the bra from around my lower thigh area) to ask for help. I wanted some molding cut, miter cornered, so I could finish off the Yankees bathroom I'd started, before the party. H's friends will love it. Except the Red Sox fans....but since I did this for him, I don't care what his friends think.

And........... back to me:

The guy whom I also out of kindness I won't name (Chris, with the funky goatee thing going on - dude? it's so not working for ya) told me that they, like, don't do that.

And I'm all, heeeeellllllooooo - this is Home Depot, You Can Do It, We Can Help - remember? I can do it, I need some help. Here's the help I need - miter cut these molding pieces to these lengths. See? I nail it up, after you HELP me cut it.

That didn't go over well at all.

He also called me ma'am. Not, miss, or honey - not that I enjoy being called honey by someone I don't know, but basically having the appraisal from head to toe, and ending up with being call ma'am, and no help whatsoever?

Might as well put me out to pasture to rot. Christ. I pull out the stops: heaving bust, over-mascaraed blue eyes batting charmingly - and what do I get?

A bath with no molding, yelled at by some old bat, and a car full of fucking cans that still need to be recycled.

Oh, Shit.

My life is shit.

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

My day revolves not around me (which I'm shocked, just shocked to discover - I mean, I AM the center of all that is fabulous, right?) but around someone else's colonic needs. (Clearly not my own, as ladies don't poop - we have an upset tummy only remedied by some lovely calming book reading in the library - the one with a sink in it)

Yes, we talk a lot about poop - I seem to forever be plunging a bowl (okay, fine, so sometime's it is because I've ignored all warnings and flushed that which should not be flushed) supplying toilet paper, walking in all weather, simply to empty bowels. collecting it, disposing of it in various manners.

Walking should invoke a raised heart rate, deep breathing in, noticing roses (or weeds, whatever) softly scented breeze wafting through my perfectly coiffed hair......instead, I'm dragged around by a dog that weighs a mere fraction of what I weigh.

Embarrassing enough, fyi.

To realize my eyes are not on the flowering and now blooming wee grapelets on the grape plants, but are firmly on the puckered sphincter of my stampeding mini beagle?

Christ. I might as well just paint a sign that says Pussy Dog Owner right on my chest. In my defense, her center of gravity is lower than mine, thus making it that much easier to yank me along; however, I'll skim over the part of the walk where she pulled, I wasn't ready, and I face planted in the field. Drawing a veil over that experience. And the audience.

I thought winter time I had it bad. Dressing in snow gear, freezing my ga-zoogies off, forever tramping to and fro for The Spot to Drop. I'd no idea how good I had it then. Then, we were a One Drop Family.

Now? Now? Three drop minimum. No, I do not mean all in the same place, or, that she was walking along only to find her finicky bowels let loose - three separate drop zones. All with copious loggage.

I'm not sure I'll every carry enough bags for her; and I'm cheap - I don't want to go through an entire roll of bags in a week. It's just.....too much. Instead, I'm left with my I'm Too Cheap To Buy More Bags, so I get one from the free spot (they're sturdier anyway, so I never again need face - well, it was gross, ok?) slap on a gas mask (or I would if I had one) and carry an open palm of Poop en' Bag, clump it all together in one bag, and viola' - homeward bound.

It does limit the number of folks I converse with while out walking. To like, zero. I don't blame them - I'd never willingly wander up to some crazy dog owner walking around with an open bag of poop nestled in her hand. I wore gloves one time (the purple ones, as you already know) - that only painted me as a hysterical germaphobe who can't close the goddamn poop bag. Let's face it, you're first thought when seeing me with that open bag of feces steaming in my palm is not her dog poops a lot. It's I'm an idiot.

The hardest part for me to accept? That there was THAT much in there in the first place! HOW she has that much remains as much of the mystery - since we drop that much dung several times a day! WTF?!

I can only imagine how bad this would be if I fed her that brand, where the little dog talks about not only being a good pooper, but and optimal one. I know it's yellow - so I stay far away from any dog food bags with yellow in them. Currently, I'm trying to find one that has less fiber, more constipating beet root, fewer calories - should be littler poop, right? RIGHT? - but it still leaves the conundrum of where on Earth she's getting all this poop in the first place.

God help me too, because yesterday? While out? (it was gorgeous, thankfully) Our last dump was quite close to home - close enough to drag her up the back stairs to the deck door - and being my mother's child, where we re-use ziploc baggies after washing - I had that thought.

I could flush this, and wash the bag.

Re-use bag.

Save me, please.

I told you my life is shit.

The list of things I've not accomplished is longer than the the items on the accomplished list.

Sad.

Very sad indeed.

Made discovery that when stupid dog carried around retainers in her mouth (yes, I still wear retainers to bed) she didn't just carry them.

She relished them - relishing part of the resin right off the left side of the bottom one. I realize, you may not entirely be interested in where exactly she managed to screw me royally, but when I start biting my tongue, all the time, because my bite doesn't match up? And my lip is bleeding, totally distracting you from trying to figure out what I'm saying because I'm also not supposed to use my jaw?

I'm quite sure then you'll want to know.

I'd have to tell you: Fucker Up and Shoot Me had struck again.

On the plus side, there are things that got done...the Looming Laundry in my bedroom hallway? If you can get past that, keeping eyes firmly ahead, ignoring any brightly colored garment screaming for your attention, you'll end up in the cleanest room in my house: my master bathroom.

That's right.

The room no one but me goes in.

Sort of pointless then, to go through the hassle of cleaning everything without an audience to admire it; then again, it does give me a place to hide from the Looming Laundry fighting for space in the hall. I ran 6 loads through already. I even folded them. Another pointless act - I had to move them to the chair in the living room - yes, the modern art sculpture rose again - because where does one usually fold clothes?

That's right.

On. The. Bed.

Six loads should have put a sizable dent in Looming Laundry.

Not so much. Laundry situation is less than ideal.

Fox gets bigger, his clothes take up more space, and he gets so sweaty at practice, games, bike riding, I swear he changes clothes more often than a fashion model. Then there's the pre-treating. He's asked me to stop getting his baseball pants quite so clean; I nearly agree with him - why bother when he'll dive bomb first plate at the earliest opportunity?

I gave some thought to disposable clothing.

Changed my mind when I stumbled upon Depends, that now come in colors and patterns. I find this shocking. Baby diapers don't come in colors and patterns; so why these? And aren't fewer people seeing them? A baby's backside is constantly on display; but an 80 year olds? I should sincerely hope not. I suppose, if one felt better donning a pair of pink Depends instead of boring ol' white ones, who am I to judge? Hell, I hardly even own any underwear anymore, now that Pucker learned how to scale the side of the tub, tippy-toe over to the edge of the second sink (aka hamper for her favorite items) to help herself.

Right after she realized she could knock down the baby gates that I was too busy (or lazy, whatever) to secure into the wall.

Perhaps I'm the one needing disposable underpinnings.

Might even be cheaper.

Less comfy.

Would spend more time in soothingly clean master bath.

Hmmmmmm.

I'll have to put that on my To Do list.

Envy

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.

Wart on the butt of humanity

There has been a wart on my thumb, which I got, while cleaning out the bathroom in the house B and I bought from his parents. Yes, ewwwwww.

Clearly, B, is the wart on the backside of humanity. He is also a toad.

Coincidence?

I think not.

I've spent seven years now, trying everything under the sun to get of wart. And ex-husband. To no avail. Hmmm. Again, I ask you, co-incidence? Hardly.

I've decided that they are one and the same. It's the head of my idiot Ex on my left thumb (which, unless you're left handed, most folks think is the hand of the devil anyway, as it suits my purposes here, I'm running with that for the moment) waxing and waning with the amount of idiocy B displays. Flare up followed ugly trips to family court, including the one where my knickers and tights ended up around my knees, requiring that very unladylike yank at my backside; it's nearly disappeared, two years ago, at the same time that B did for eight weeks.

He showed back up. Made an ugly scene.

Fucker on my thumb showed back up too.

I've spent a fortune on Dr. Scholl's Wart Away sticks, burning stuff, band-aids, gel, liquids. I spent an entire summer with my thumb firmly under duct tape wrappings; only to piss off rat bastard. I've also spent a fortune on legal bills. Shocker, I know.

Summer's around the corner, and while most ladies I know are doing the Swim Suit Shuffle, nightmares of try-on rooms with horrible lighting dancing through their heads, I've one goal in mind: kill off both warts with one go.

Court date: July 22nd.

Kill off wart: July 22nd.

That's right. I've stepped it up a notch. This. Means. War. In January, I got quite annoyed, and decided (after reading a blog of some guy that does this for a living in CA, using a little surgery technique) that since I too was taking and Anatomy course, have done surgery on stuffed animals and minor wounds of my dog, can sniff out a gram-stain positive bacteria in poop immediately, that seriously, how hard could this be?

Famous last words.

I followed the instructions. First, numb area. (Ice. Lots of ice) Inject blood flow blocker. Hmm. Fresh out of that; got extra paper towels. Sterilize sharp cutting utensil; he used a scapel and the worlds smallest melon baller - I had a paring knife, and a grapefruit spoon - same thing, really. Apply alcohol to area.

Okey-dokey.

One hefty belt of whisky for me, one for the hand. One for me, one for the hand. One for me...and another one for me...we were off and cutting!

I swear I got it all. I dug down nearly to bone. Well. Maybe. I'm a wee tad fuzzy on some of the details.....but it was deep, that I can attest. I followed exactly what this guy did (did I mention he had his MD?) dig moat with sharp cutting tool. Use spoon tool to dig under entire wart, remove, ice, apply antibiotic ointment, wrap, and sober up.

I awoke the next day, to tingling in thumb. Unpeeled safety wrapping. Still. There. Tingling, I've heard, is sign of growth. Swore at a few things. Went back to original plan: apply acid based bandagey things, then pick and dig for a bit, reapply to choke off air, dig....you get the idea.

Here is it, months later, and I'm nearly there - on both accounts. I can almost see the finish line. B has basically handed me sole custody on a silver platter; my thumb has maybe, 1mm left to demolish, and then?

I'll be wart free.

Totally.

Everyone says you can't get warts from a toad.

Clearly, I've proven otherwise.

Keep your fingers crossed. With any luck, both warts and toad will cease to bother me on July 22nd.

Gossip vs. News

Jonathan said I was a gossip.

I know, I did the big shocked inhale too.

I said I only repeated things one time, so you'd best listen up when I talk.

Jonathan said he'd no idea I had such an ear to the ground, knew so much about other people.

I pointed out that really, I'm simply a reporter. A messenger, so to speak.

(add in big cheeky grin. Or, as big as I can get with jaw surgery...that didn't work - but that's another whole beef in and of itself)

And, um, Jonathan? What's the difference then, between news and gossip, hmmm?

The only one I can find, is that I'm passing along tidbits of folks we know, not those that we don't. I'm not really interested in people in other countries, currently. Shallow as that may sound.

Instead, I rather prefer to share that Elaine Lundgren (yes, that Elaine) has been dying her hair platinum blonde every three weeks, and her hair is falling out. Hmmm. Too bad. This tidbit came by way of the bus stop - not, mind, that I was close enough to slap her, but sitting in my car, with the window down, as it's such a gorgeous day, K's voice wafted over on the breeze. So it's not like I was eavesdropping or anything. That's public knowledge. Anything discussed at the bus stop is public knowledge. Everyone knows that.

Elaine was a shoe in as the model for Fuck Me Pirate Barbie, with black knickers ending at her knees, white blouse not even Elastigirl could've held together over a sent of Store Boughts that were supposedly, a very generous C. More like a very generous DD. Hanging out of the blouse, as well as the black vest, on which she only managed to button one button. She wasn't hiding anything. Tottering around in this getup, on red, plastic stacked heels, I waited for a parrot to land on her shoulder. Then again, that might've gotten in the way of the hoop earrings she had on - she's gotta have a place to put her ankles.

K's husband brought Fox home the other night after they all played baseball together, and told me that Foxy has a great arm. He does. (See? I'm not just sharing the bitchy stuff, but the good stuff too. I've got a strangle hold on Journalistic Integrity.)

This woman, whom I don't know? This morning? Came to school dressed in this fluttery pink blouse stretched across bazooms only a surgeon could create, tucked into the whitest white, tight fitting skirt I've ever seen. In the highest heels too. Now, as J pointed out, there is indeed a time and place for this outfit - school wasn't it. However. I noticed her. Thus, I'm bound to comment. It's like, my duty. Especially when it's apparently a two for one day - or maybe it's a four-fer? As all the Faux Boobies were on display.

Quite frankly, it's making me quite happy that mine hang down around my knees. So what if I have to buy bra's in a balconet style - I prefer those anyway, and since I'm not ever going to sport a g-string, why bother getting the tiny bra to match, to decorate girls that don't move when I sneeze?

I met J and C, two of Lovely J's girlfriend/mom's, and they're just lovely as well. They're little ones are cutie pies too - though apparently J's son, C, plays on a baseball team in town that's going by the moniker of the Bad News Bears. Which is funny, because her husband that was there, is this big hulking guy, who looks like he could totally hold his own on any sporting field.

Or in a dark alley as well. Hey, if I'm ever stuck in a dark alley, this is the guy I'd call.

Sorry Jonathan. But he's way bigger than you. Safety first, you know.

In my opinion, this is the kind of thing published in a local newspaper. Not the boring stuff, like who is running for what, or that the town isn't sure they're hiring a new administrator. I don't really want to read about anything remotely political anymore; not that I'm not interested, but since Mag's and I share a very unique view, we tend to only discuss it, loudly, in Panera Bread, when we're trying to get rid of the volvo-driving, pseudo-granola crunching, un-shaved legged wannabe seated next to us.

I'd rather know what kind of baby Casey's parents (the dog across the street, Pucker just loves her) had. Yes, I know it's human. But boy or girl?

They went out one morning, and haven't been back yet; out of town plated cars parked there this morning, so you know the baby arrived. The condo association won't allow them to hang balloons, or put anything like a giant stork in the yard, but if it was in the paper? Well. Then I'd know, now, wouldn't I?

Of course, it's this kind of stuff that gives us a reason to speak to our neighbors. Chatted up M the other evening to see if I could have some of their smashed unused clay pots to line the bottom of the ones Jonathan put up on the railing; nattered about how one of her daughters finished grad school (yeah!) and they're having an open house. On the 15th. We're invited. And J's boyfriend (the daughter from next door - I know an awful lot of folks with J as their first initial...hmm...wonder if that means anything) B, (shudder, that man needs a new name) rides a kick-ass bike, with a sidecar so his german sheppard can go out with him. Sometimes, Mia wears goggles as well. How fabulous is that!

Got the news that the drunk lady, across the way, with the ill-mannered, constantly barking un-walked beagles got thrown out by the association, for a, being a lush, b, wearing highheeled boots to walk to and from the liquor store, and c, because the beagles have peed so much on their deck that the copper flashing is turning black.

It's my understanding that it takes a good deal to turn copper black.

Now, P next door, who's on the board? He so couldn't tell me that. He could, however, listen to what I'd gleaned being out and about, as a good pet owner, walking my pup, chit-chatting with other dog owners. Like the lady next to door to The Lush. She had quite a bit to say, about the fact that the urine has penetrated the walls, and now their entire condo smells of pee. He had to go inside after that part.But, he told M, his wife, about them being removed (a fancy way of saying exiled) who is more than free to share it with me. And I need to know this stuff! She was a safety hazard to my little guy waiting at the bus stop! She sits in there with her empties, and yells at the kids getting off the bus.

Gossip has such a negative connotation - as well it should. Some of it's just plain mean - the rumors started and spread that are untrue. However, the truth, regardless of how badly it may sting, is still, at the end of the day, the truth; thus, that qualifies as news.

My point? There is a fine line between gossip and news.

I'm firmly planted on the news side.

Anyone can see that.

Strike Three.

I wasn't enough.

Went to bed in near state of panic, knowing I wasn't what Fox needed last night, knowing J was angry with me.

Got up feeling badly about last night.

Felt worse when J offered to make me coffee instead of just bringing me some, meaning he was still angry with me, rightfully so, but I couldn't find the words to tell him why I behave like an ass.

Completely freak out when he kisses me goodbye, with a chill in his voice that we'll talk later; so now I've screwed it up with Fox, and J.

Boys: batters on first and second. Grand Slam on the way.

Me: struck out.

Ponder while putting clothing away, my penance for screwing up, as I detest putting clothing away. Discover how big Fox really has gotten.

Fox and I now are wearing the same size socks; he's worn holes in my socks - on one hand quite thrilling, as soon, I'll have all his outgrown flannel lined jeans to choose from, the other hand, scary, as he's outpacing me faster than I anticipated. Scary thought, your child outgrowing his mama. I put away socks. Attempted shoving thoughts about not knowing how to parent an 8 year old, or behave like a grown up, behind some socks whose mates didn't escape the dryer. Ever.

Replayed ugliness of last night in my head, for like the 30th time. Inwardly cringed. Caught finger in edge of dresser drawer.

Swore.

gggggg. Sorry. Picked the gunk off the "g" on the keyboard.

Sigh. Hit replay, again, for 31st viewing.

Feeling helpless led to stupid ugliness. Covered helplessness and fear that Foxy'd hate me for not being able to fix it, for not finding him a Real Dad under generous coating or Righteous Indignation along with the equally potent Misplaced Blame.

Admit, at least to myself, that I don't do vulnerable well; or helpless - but I do Angry really well. Angry's easier. Cleaner. Less invasive.

I'm angry, that people tell Fox he's so talented, he should playing in a different baseball league than he is; or that he's so big, his bike should be a 20", not an 18" - because I hear about it, everyday, from him. Fox doesn't hear could, he hears should. Thus, whatever he IS doing, isn't the right thing. It's not enough. He spent all last summer not riding his bike because a neighbor said he was big enough for the next size up. Big enough doesn't mean your other bike it too small; but it was out there, so naturally, Fox thinks his other bike is too small. Refuses to ride it. Complains that I won't buy him a new one. Incessantly.

Now, it's happening with Little League; I get it that he's very talented athletically; I understand his frustration with the kids who are just starting out - but it's an age rule. He dug in his heels, and after we talked about it calmly, he flipped out about it, and now, here it is, revisited again, on our way to the bus stop this morning. Like I said it would. I remind him that it's an age rule, that I cannot change. That he's in the right place. But some dad told him otherwise. Clearly, they know better than I. His words? Dads know this kind of stuff. Moms don't. You know, like he told me last night.

See firecracker meet match?

I'm annoyed that he doesn't know how to let go of things. How to simply accept them. How that translates into him digging at me, over and over and over and over again; I'm not sure I've the patience. I'm angry with myself, that a, I can't fix it for him, and b, I can't seem to figure out how to deal with him when he's like this. See? I should have the patience to hear, everyday, for the next four months about how he shouldn't be in the league he's in. How he's better than some of those kids. That he could be in kid-pitch, but he misses the birthday cut off by 19 days.

I start off calmly with him, but that incessant gripe gets me every time, til we're at each other, hammer and tongs, and I'm the one left feeling like shit because it's not his fault that someone said something to him that got him worked up; it's not his fault he can't let it go, it's something we're working on. In the end, it's my fault, for not handling it well. How is going to learn how to have patience, when I can't seem to find any??!

I should have more patience.

I should be kinder about it.

Naturally, because I'm an ass, and can't get out of my own way, I use statements like: why do guys do that? Can't guys just not say stuff that get my child in a swivet? Totally irritating J, who points out calmly (damn him for being able to stay calm; now I'm angry because I'm losing it) it's not the guy's fault, that my child takes that statement a certain way. It's not Foxy's fault either. But I'm acting like I'm angry with Fox for feeling the way he does. Fuels feeling of impotence, escalates into me being out of control over something stupid.

Truly, it's not Fox I'm angry at. Or even that guy that told him how talented he is, what a great arm he has - because he does have one. I'm enraged, because J doesn't see it the way I do - or, because he's right; I'm not telling him I'm enraged at me.

Yes, it's great that someone feeds his ego, because he needs that. He needs to know that a guy backs him, thinks what he does is great - his dad spent the whole game yelling at him, off field, how to bat, how to stand, what to catch. B became that parent on the field that everyone asks: Who In Hell Is THAT Guy part. I cringed from a field away from him, sitting with J, squeezing his hand because I know how badly it feels to be in that position.

Feeling like nothing you do is right, or good enough.

I'm angry at the unfairness of being the Mom, when really, there are times I need to be The Dad. Knowing, that the same sex parent, even an absent one, is the more influential parent in a kid's life - he'll spend his whole life trying to gain his dad's approval, for him to be proud of Foxy, to be the Dad he's always imagined. Fox will feel small, and overlooked; not enough. He won't get it, for a long time yet, that it's his dad's issue. Not his.

Fox already knows I'm proud of him; but because I'm not a baseball guru, because I'm not the one that will teach him how to throw a curve ball, or a change up, because I'm not a guy, the dad, I have to sit back and pick up the pieces when they all fall apart.

I dropped the ball.

Fox's pulling his hair in my bathroom, while I'm trying to negotiate another shower in one day, offering him the control to choose which one - his, or mine. Anything, really, to let him gain a measure of control when right now, especially coming off a weekend with B, he's had no control. End up very cross. Get in screaming match over Little League Baseball Rules.

Pissed off J in the process, with gender inclusive all encompassing generalization. He said that I was bent out of shape over something so small - well, of course he doesn't get it - I can't even articulate why I'm so frustrated, in tears - that maybe he'd just leave.

Yikes.

Now I've really gone and screwed it up. Hid in room, to minimize any more damage. Tried not to suffocate on cocktail of fear, panic, and unfairness.

I couldn't admit that this was all about me.

That someone else's opinion, a guys opinion will always hold more weight than mine. Even that I didn't find someone, fall in love and remarry sooner, so Fox would have a Real Dad. Which would keep me from screwing up like this.

Mostly though, what I'm really, honest to goodness angry about?

Fox doesn't believe me.

I'm so angry I can't stand it, because I'm not a dad, I'm not enough.