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Mothers Day weekend is upon us, and I am sans children until Sunday. I'm going to make good use of this weekend, and not go shopping, like I did last weekend and then found the purchases did not fill my emptiness, although I am very pleased with the return of high waisted pants and cropped shirts.

Today George and I went to Kohl's because they occasionally send me a ten dollar gift certificate in the mail, and I always tell the kids they can use it to buy a toy. George picked out a plastic race car track. Then we walked by the clothes and I suggested we buy him some shorts because he refuses to wear the nice outfit I bought him at Costco that actually fits him. He made it very clear he does not want to buy clothes.
He is the pickiest person to buy clothes for. I bought him Vans, that weren't cheap, after he picked the fucking things out, and every morning he yells to me that he's wearing his old stinky shoes that are too small.
"Do your thing! But I am docking those shoes from any tooth fairy money you get!"
Like he works at a Paul Mitchell salon, he only wears black or his Mickey Mouse snorkeling shirt, thats not allowed at his school. His black fleece disappeared, and after I tried to buy him a sweatshirt, where he actually shed tears over it's ugliness, I decided it's a waste anyways because we are approaching the hellish temperatures of summer. His love of black clothes, and using pomade to style his hair, does lead me to think he might end up running a salon.

Except he talks a lot about going to space, and living other places, without me. Today he asked, "Can I move to Antarctica?"
I said, "Of course, I bet when you're older it will be the next Brooklyn."
He then questioned what I meant by "older."
"I want to move there when I'm ten."
"That's too young, you need to wait a bit longer, unless we go together."
"No, I'm going by myself."

Unlike previous generations, I am going to squash him to my teat until he punches himself away, leaving me bruised and tearful. Not really. I actually think, if I get rich enough, I will be sending my kids off to boarding school, and not for any reason to get my ya-yas out, but because I wish I would have been sent to boarding school. I'm just pushing my own dreams on them.
By thirteen, you really can be out there, living life.
My dad was sent away when he was ten! To work over summers doing really intense manual labor. He tells us stories of his adult roommate in the trailer he lived in, and I love hearing it. But my dad is an extrovert, and so it suits him.

My horoscope said May 10 was supposed to be especially romantic, and I had very high expectations that fell, not even short, but flatlined. I anticipated the hot guy at the gym, who triggered my reptilian brain, to say hi, but he wasn't there. The day before, he approached me and introduced himself saying we should know each others names since were always saying hi. And, to my surprise, he had an accent!
Maybe he's Australian or South African. It was just a sentence, and I was running and pulled my ear bud out to shake his hand. But it now makes sense how he sunbathes on the lounge chairs outside after he works out, like someone who is closely attached to Middle Europe and their refusal of sunscreen.

I don't know why I'd want to resume a relationship though, I actually couldn't cope with introducing another person into my very specific organization skills, and I don't mean specific in an anal way, but rather a very confusing way. Like, how could I have ever expected someone to figure out what sippy cups work and which ones don't? I pile them all up in the colander (that needs to be dumped every couple days when were making pasta.) And George has very specific conditions, like he can only use a cup that doesn't leak. At the moment, and for the past year, we only have three that fulfill this need. If you give him a cup otherwise, he'll figure out it doesn't have a stopper, and then happily make a Jackson Pollock on the floor.

Today, I opened the spice cabinet and noticed a pile of safety pins on the side. I forgot I put them there after we did a race a month ago. I gave a knowing look, "Oh, yes, that's good to know. This is where I keep the safety pins!" I didn't think to move them because where the hell else should they go?

Kiki's book woke me up last night. At four A.M. it started singing, "Everybody likes to sparkle in their own special way..."  It was on the kitchen table. I thought it would stop after a bit, but then realized it was on a never ending loop. I crept from my bed, into the dark kitchen and turned the master power off, and quickly retraced my steps to get back in bed. Then I was spooked because the fridge made a loud thump. I remembered the dream I was having and then got even more weirded out.

I am reading Russell Brand's My Booky Wook, and it's funny, but falling asleep after reading about how his dad took him on a two week prostitution escapade was sort of sad. He seemed ok with it though, maybe he sees things differently a few chapters down.

I remember in fifth grade I came home from school, and after hearing some jokes I wasn't sure what I was laughing at, I asked my mom, "What's a blow job?"
And my mom said to me, "Never say that word again!"
My mom taught sex Ed to middle school kids, so when I look back, I do find this a startling response. But I had other resources. I asked my older brother and sister, who quickly let me know exactly what a blow job is, but they reiterated what my mom said earlier, "Alicia, don't ever say that word around mom, again!"

And I never did. Happy mother's day, mommy!