Looking in the mirror

Not your Grandma's hair

As I get older I am beginning to see family members when I look in mirrors. I check my rearview to back the car up, and my mom's eyes are looking back at me. I go to wash my face at night, and as I reach for a towel, in my peripheral vision, I see my older brother's nose in the mirror. My rotating prominent features could be effective at warding off the overly ambitious guy at a bar who comes in hot with an unremarkable compliment on being beautiful. I could simply inform him, "At the moment, you're seeing my mom. Wait ten minutes, and my dad will appear." My face is not much different than a magic eye poster, where in one moment it looks like a princess and at another moment it looks like an old lady, except it is various relatives who seem to appear and reappear.

I also notice this with my kids and young nieces. I can see their family resemblance, but only one family member at a time. My daughter, for the most part, looks so much like my dad to me, and she strangely personifies him as well; she has to be in charge and needs boss me around. If I say, "We are going to McDonalds for vanilla cones." She will say, "No! We have to go to McDonald's for vanilla cones!" And then I reply, "That sounds great. You're right, let's do that!"

My brother came to town on business, and on his night off, we sat in the backyard drinking Coors Light and smoking cigarettes. The light from inside the house was shining out onto us sitting on old iron lawn chairs with plastic straps making the seat. Under the stars and moonlight, I explained to my brother how the bare trees around our house remind me of a head of hair on an old woman, sparse and wiry. Hair that stands straight out, as if they had recently been electrocuted, but really showing they lived a life that has sent such charges through them, it is visually evident on their head.

My brother was smiling at me when I went on this belligerent rant, as if I were the Chief of a toking circle. I looked into his face, and his eyes had a twinkle, which matched the smile on his face. I said, "You have the same eyes as George." Their eyes are beautiful, and I am surprised I hadn't noticed until this moment of self-indulgent babble. They are close set, but open wide and have a wild yet confident sparkle.

My brother lives his life the way his eyes appear. His wild manners led him to being labeled "the baby" way past the point where a man, or woman, wants to be titled as such. His confidence can't be ruffled though, proven by how he can stand in front of a crowd of a hundred people and deliver a heart-felt speech off the cuff. He works hard, parties hard, and good lord, does he fall in love hard.

When I was 10 years old, my Grandpa on my mom's side died. The day we found out we were in our usual routine. With my little sister and brother in tow, we walked from the bus to our apartment. I pulled the shoestring necklace from my shirt and got hold of the key dangling from the bottom. I slid it into the keyhole and opened the door to see my mom crying on the couch. She would normally not be home for a couple hours, so I knew something was wrong.

She explained to us that her dad died. I felt the knot in my throat and knew once the water pipe burst I would not be able to stop it, so I pushed her away and went to my room. I walked out of my room a little later and could hear my brother wailing. When I peeked into his room, she was sitting on his bed and he was lying across her lap. My mom was rubbing his back as they both cried. We had been living in Germany for three years, and were just weeks from being shipped back to the states. My mom was going to leave us to go back and be with her family.

My brother was so young, and his memories of my Grandpa must have been brief. The tears he cried, so hard and loudly, were for my mom. He is a sponge of people's emotions, and perhaps that is how he does so well when he is standing on a stage. It is all the people looking at him, and all their feelings of anticipation for something interesting and exciting to come out of his mouth, which strengthen, and empowers him to deliver on these hopes.

At night as I stand in front of the mirror padding my skin dry, I look into my face, seeing family members fading in and out, and I look for that sparkle. A hopeful search that will reveal I’m like my brother, absorbent and actively receptive. Mostly though, it’s a longing to be wild.

So wild

So sweet

Keeping the Kid from Jonesing While Keeping up With The Joneses

Contemplating Valentine's Day consumerism

Today I went to the dollar store. I have to get Valentine’s Day cards for my daughter to bring to school for a party on Friday. She doesn’t even go to school on Friday, but seeing as how the last couple holidays I’d pick her up from school and leave with a garbage bag full of little cute gifts from all her classmates, I think we ought to contribute to this cycle of wastefulness so as to not make enemies or be frowned upon as lazy thoughtless people.

There are 30 kids in my daughter's class, and therein lies the problem because I am kind of cheap. I am not cheap when it comes to many things, but I am cheap when it comes to buying laundry detergent, underwear and crappy toys for kids that will break and end up in the garbage.

For Halloween, my daughter received a goody bag from a classmate that was exploding with treats and little toys similar to what they’d get after visiting the dentist. She really enjoyed it, but after she saw Skittles everything else went in the trash. After her introduction to Skittles, her tunnel vision for the rainbow colored candy grew narrower and narrower. I was forced to throw all the Skittles in the garbage after a couple days because it came to a point where I imagined her staring up at the candy bowl on the fridge, scratching behind her ear and saying, “I’m jonesing for some Skittles, Mama. Be a dear and grab this cat a bag of that rainbow flavored deliciousness.”

The mom who put these goody bags together probably spent two hundred dollars on this stuff. I was certainly impressed, but equally irritated because of the expectation of reciprocation and her setting the bar so high. I like the idea of giving out little paper cards with the occasional lollypop attached. Most of the students in my daughter’s class are pretty spoiled, and will already be getting a chocolate gift from their parents. A bag of additional candy from classmates is unnecessary, mainly because it will be thrown in the trash since a four year old can’t eat that much candy.

The school irritates me further, by asking parents to bring in crafting materials so the kids can decorate shoeboxes to uses as Valentine’s Day cardholders. After reading the email with that request, I felt like throwing my laptop through the window. I pay a lot of money for my kid to go to school here, and they are asking me to drive to Wal-Mart and buy shit they have in their supply cabinet. It seems like a power play. They want to find out who is most willing to waste their time as a show of devotion to the people who are taking care of their kids.

When I dropped my daughter off at school yesterday, a mom came in with four Target bags full of shit to use during the Valentines party. I am not going to be peer pressured into buying gobs of crap that will amount to donut. I did note that she went to Target, and not the Dollar Store, giving me the sense to swap the Dollar Store bag for a Whole Foods bag. I got to keep up with the Joneses a little bit, but at the same time, keep my kid from Jonesing.

A Hug: a free and genuine gesture for Valentine's Day

Pancakes with Spirits

When George first learned how to wave, he would walk around the house waving. It was so very cute to watch his enthusiastic motions and excited smile. He began communicating with the world, and he knew it. I admired his pride, and would share stories of his expanding knowledge, “You should see the way his forearm sways!”

In the mornings, George and I kept ourselves entertained. Me sitting at my computer and George sitting on the floor with his blocks or singing computerized toys. I’d catch him looking at the cream-colored brick wall, and he’d be waving. Throwing his arm with the same enthusiasm as if I were sitting  in front of him. I’d say something encouraging like, “Oh Georgie, you are such a good waver. Look how hard you practice. My hard working little baby!” and he would keep going.

After turning back to the computer screen, I’d get the chills, thinking, “I wonder if that baby is talking to spirits and shit.”

Sometimes I ask questions to my daughter that she would have no idea the answer to, like my living Magic 8 Ball. She responds with such conviction, I scrunch up my eyebrow, and think, “That girl sounds like she is telling the truth!”

Over breakfast I might ask, “Kiki, are we ever going to move to Berlin? Or, maybe we will move to New York? What do you think?” And she will say, “Berlin!”

If I dare ask her for more details like, when does she foresee this happening, or if we will be living in a fabulous apartment that could be pinned on Pinterest, she will shout back to me, “Berlin!” I decide I should be happy with her answer, instead of prodding her till she screams, “Albuquerque!”

We made pancakes this weekend. The weather was rainy and windy, so the house creaked throughout the storm. There was a loud creak from the back of the hallway, and Kiki stands up straight, her eyes widen, and she says, “Is there something here?” I told her, "no, it’s the rain." Her eyes shift from my face to over my head, digesting the information and listening for more noises.

Maybe it’s my spirit guide she is looking at. Can my kids see the afterworld looming behind me? They might have a relationship with whatever is tallying up all my good deeds, as well as my lies, cheats and times of masturbation. With this thought, I put my forehead in my hand, and shake my head. It is all too embarrassing to handle. Is masturbation count being shared with Grandma Dee? She would understand, but oh lord, this is the kind of thing I like to keep buried under my down comforter.
Occasionally, my son randomly blurts out a family members name as we are driving down the road. When the baby shouted, "Matt!" my reaction was, “I have to call my brother! This baby is trying to tell me something.” There was no reason to call my brother, other than to say hello. The best I can do in times of supernatural seeming behavior is to admire my kids inhibitions and respect their space. 

I can only hope spirits have the same respect for me.

If she starts to ride a broomstick, then I will really start to worry.

Mercury is in Retrograde, Bitch!

Chin Up Charlie, we will be ok in 5 days

I love Bridget Jones, and I think back to college and how hilarious I found it. The movie used to be my go-to film when I was looking to lay on the couch and relax. The first book was followed by a second, and the second followed by a third. I read the third book a year ago, and though I thought it had funny moments, I wasn’t as dazzled. It was because Bridget repeatedly called herself a fat ass, and she weighed the same as me. My sister told me the first book did the same thing, but I was smoking a lot back then, so the scale reflected it, and I didn’t catch the insult. Aside from making me feel obese, Bridget is a lovable fuck up who manages to get everything she wants in the end.

Everything had been great. My exercise routine over the last year developed into something brag worthy. Waking up and running 5 miles every morning feels great, and the added benefit of being able to eat without guilt makes it even better. Due to the morning physical exertion, exhaustion settles in around 8pm, and sleep hits like a freight train, lasting all night long.

Last week I went to my parents, and my morning runs were left back at home. I must have let things go to my head. The week without the routine, coupled with eating like I was in my disciplined routine, left me feeling like a bloated balloon. Then the super bowl hit, and I popped. I learned why Buffalo chicken dip is served just once a year; it is painful as fuck to digest. My sister and her husband left a truckload of fattening food in my house when they left on Monday; spinach dip, onion dip, bags of chips, tamales, French bread, Sourdough bread, pizza and ice cream drumsticks. I gorged on this smorgasbord of trans fats and carbs for the following three days.

Now, if I were Bridget Jones, I would be at the part in the movie where she gets pumped up and throws all her vices in the garbage can. She stops eating old cheese, and cereal straight from the box with a pasta noodle scoop, she chooses more inspiring clothes than her business skirt paired with white granny rebook sneakers. To demonstrate her will to change, she fills her bookshelf with self help books. In parallel, I decided to read my lengthy horoscope.

After a collapse of my “kicking ass” foundation, I usually think, “Was there a full moon?” Low and behold, there was a fucking full moon! When I was reading my horoscope though, it said this full moon is supposed to bring on A LOT of money, which is lovely to read, but it didn’t mention anything about wanting to spend four days in hibernation, and eat so much food I am going to need to wear stretch pants for the next month, and they will be stretched too thin and see through (Thanks to this dick for pointing that out!) My horoscope made it seem like everything was going to be roses this month, so I am really at a loss.

My older brother is super religious, and I envy him because I doubt he spends days thinking, “Whhhhhy? Whaaaaat? FUUUUUUCK!” He is comfortable in knowing that what is planned for him will in turn reveal a greater purpose, that everything is God’s intention, and God is here to help him. It will take me 2 weeks to get back on track, and hopefully I won’t derail AGAIN on 4^th of July. Maybe the stretches are getting longer in between derailment, however, this means that I am plummeting from much greater heights. My last couple years can be charted like this:

This evening the kids and I went to Baskin Robbins and as we were ordering our cones I look down and see baby George is taking a poo. Kiki and I sit to have our cones. I tried to sit George in a chair, and he immediately freaks, rightfully so because he is mid poo. George ran and stood in the corner by a fridge where he licked his cone with bright paranoid eyes. I felt him looking at me and when I’d look over at him, his eyes darted away. At first I thought it was poop shyness, but since he started it in front of the cash register, I settled on him panicking I would take his cone away.

George has not figured out how to lick an ice cream cone. Instead he smashes the cone to his mouth, and then pulls it away and licks ice cream from his lips. It would take him 3 hours to eat his ice cream, at this rate, and because it turns into a melting pile of mess before he gets a tablespoon into his stomach, I have to eat the ice cream as it falls off, and I end up eating two ice creams (BLASTED!).

By the time we get home, after a fiasco of prying the cone from George and a fresh diaper on his butt, we settled on the couch with sippy cups, and pajamas on. Then, I realized I didn’t have my arm extension; cell phone. I knew I had it during the car ride home, so it had to be in the vicinity. After the kids were in bed I didn’t want to go back out the car and look because I am a scaredy cat. Early this morning I found it, underneath the car. Fucking weird, and how odd for that to happen! Is it the universe trying to teach me a lesson on my Internet habits, and I can’t figure out how this lesson is going to get me gobs of cash?

I saw a picture text my dad sent last night of my mom in the hot tub wearing a shower cap. My mom, the smartest weirdo I know, could be on to something. The next great shark tank idea, A HOT TUB HAT!

I don’t think the Hot Tub Hat is too likely, and Mr. Wonderful would probably be really mean when presented with this idea, but I did like how the picture made me laugh. Maybe a solution would be to watch Bridget Jones tomorrow. Have some LOL times, and then I can get back on track with my self medicating... um, I mean, exercise regimen. Waking up and busting ass in crazy exercise, can really help stabilize daunting mental turmoil, but the problem is when the routine gets interrupted. There is a reason Bridget Jones only has three books, because after 3 storylines of her tossing out all her vices, and hopping onto a spinning bike, the viewer would be chucking their Buffalo chicken dipped chip at the TV screaming, “Get it together, Bitch!” She might get away with calling women fat asses, but she won’t get away with being the downtrodden basket case too often.

Cell Phone Lock Up: Do not collect $200

These 2, being reflective.

My blissful ignorance is not feeling so blissful. I blame it on Internet History reminding me how much I’d greatly benefit from a Cell Lock-Up. However, I need a Lock Up that fits a cell phone, desktop and a laptop (Shark Tank idea!) I was talking to my mom about my sads, and she passed on some words of wisdom. She said, “Alicia, don’t get in your head about these things. You know, people are being held prisoner in sex trade, and you are worrying about this.” 

She certainly has a way of putting things in perspective. I have been walking around for two days feeling nauseas by memories that are Frankenstiened together. Physically reacting to thoughts that are so fucking embarrassing a punch in the face would be a nice relief from having to think about it.

Baby George, who is beginning to talk, loves to shout, “Oh, man!” He’s learnt this from hearing me say it throughout the day. I shout, “Oh, man” as a reaction to thoughts popping into my head. It’s like Charlie Brown’s “Good grief!” It can be a reaction to an article I am thinking about, or having to send a text, or considering to possibly write thank you cards for all the Christmas gifts, an ongoing list of shit that gives me grief, albeit, minor grievances in relation to sex slavery.

My mom admits that putting personal issues in perspective with world issues is easier said than done. She says, “Sometimes I can think about a comment from a conversation 30 years ago and it will keep me up all night.” This is probably why she recommends taking NyQuil to get to sleep.

Luckily my daughter listens to Frozen’s “Let It Go” song all the time, and it's an uplifting anthem for someone who seems to have a hard time letting things go, or like Charlie Brown, seems to not learn from hundreds of attempts at kicking a football, that Lucy is going to pull it away. Charlie Brown, the eternally optimistic who comes off more dumb than he should (We saw you reading Tolstoy, Charlie!)

Will he ever learn?

 Last night I poked my charging cell phone on the bedside table. The screen lit up and I read an alert from Twitter, “Execution following hostages being burnt alive.” I immediately wished I didn’t check my phone. I don’t want to go to bed after reading this sad shit. It's this sadness that really makes a Phone Lock Up appealing because ultimately, I'd like to go to bed a blissful ignorant to the world, even if it means I have to fall asleep in a heavy, non-breathable blanket of my own thoughts. I have the next morning and entire day to reflect on the awful things going on in the world.

My future birthday present

Deep Thoughts on Deep Thoughts: Refrain From Autopilot

When I was rushing out of the house this morning to bring my daughter to school, I walked into the door as I was opening it. The door hit me square in the nose. The pain was shocking, and lingered, tingling to my teeth. I was behind schedule, just enough, where I might be able to manage being on time. I rubbed my nose, like a certain bewitched witch, and bustled us toward the car.

I ‘d say I am distracted today because I have a lot on my mind. Spending time deep in thought really gets me nowhere, except a bunch of physical pain. After my son was born and the consequential sleep deprivation, I was making a smoothie and as I packed the spinach down, I unknowingly turned the blender on. I instantly jumped from my daze, and withdrew my hand. Luckily, my hand did not get mangled, but my index finger was deeply sliced in three different places. Shortly after, I stupidly did a similar thing with the garbage disposal; as I pushed food down the drain, I flipped on the disposal. When the blade skimmed the tip of my finger, I pulled my hand back quickly. After these wake up calls, I had to consciously make an effort to not go into autopilot because my autopilot is not high functioning.

When I picked up my daughter from school the teacher told me she felt my daughter behaved weirdly today. That she looked confused, and asked her teacher, “Where are we?” I am not a professional in childhood development, and I don’t think the teacher is either, since she is describing my child’s behavior as “Weird.” I took my daughter to the doctor a month ago, on request of the teacher, who said she thought my daughter had issues with focusing. The doctor reassured me that my daughter is a completely normal 3 year old. She is going from a quiet home environment to a hectic classroom two days a week, and it likely exhausts her quickly.

My daughter’s teacher is also comparing her to kids in the class who are twice her age. Maybe I didn’t research preschool well enough, and now it seems like putting my daughter into a preschool that feeds kids into its private elementary school was a bad idea because she is intermingling with children who are as old as 6, and this is the benchmark for my daughter who started the program before turning 3 years old. After telling the teacher that the doctor has confirmed my daughter is completely normal, and I am with her 24 hours a day, aside from the two 4 hour days she is in school, and have never found her oblivious, or “weird.”

Picking nose when being asked to smile for camera can be called "weird"

After leaving her school, I drove to Starbucks, pulled in the drive thru and ordered, all the time thinking about the teacher, her opinions, my daughter, her continuation at this school, and the ridiculousness of me having to reiterate to the teacher how my daughter is developmentally healthy. With my mind racing, I ordered my drink, paid and stuffed the drink into a cup holder loaded up with straw wrappers and unused ketchup packets.

As I was turning right out of the parking lot, I slammed on the brakes for a biker who came out of nowhere. I almost ran this man over, and after a very long moment of relief, and checking to see him continue to ride on, I kept going. The biker didn’t even yell at me, or throw up the middle finger. He was dressed in normal street clothes, a testament to his sanity. I have been cussed out many a time by The Biker type who is wearing head to knee spandex, with a dentists mirror taped to his helmet. I look at them, doe-eyed, and they yell at me tomato faced with spit flinging from their lips. Before they fall over from a heart attack, or I can think of anything to say back, the light changes and the crazed biker is off. I spend the rest of my day thinking of what I should have yelled in their face. It usually goes along the lines of, “Don’t take your anger out on me! Just because you hate your life, doesn’t mean you should go around in ridiculous clothes yelling at people from your bike. I could kill you with a turn of the wheel.”

I can come up with some really fantastic comebacks when I am mentally reenacting the encounter doing dishes, or folding laundry. Unlike the bikers, who I will never see again, I do have to see my daughter’s teacher again, and this is not boding well for my reenactments. All our encounters will be awkward from now on. I have 2 options here, and have to choose a or b without allowing myself to be carried away by “over thinking things,” which means, this is not a decision worth loosing a finger over, or, even worse, killing a friendly biker.

Putting on her wedding hat (aka veil)