In My Head Bed

Last night I was reading a book about near death experiences. George was being a bit of a rascal, to put it nicely, and was not getting on board with our usual bedtime routine. So I'd go back and forth to his room trying to get him to stay in bed and fall asleep. George is a peculiar kid because, even though he wants me to lay next to him in bed, he can not control his excitement by all the possible fun that could arise, and this makes him very restless, and unable to fall asleep. Even at a couple months old, he was only able to fall asleep if he was in his crib alone.
So I tried laying with him, and he'd seem like he was drifting off, but then shoot up like a rocket, and look at me with a wide, mischievous grin. Then, I moved to the rocking chair at the foot of the bed, thinking the distance would help him drift off. I continued reading my book, but eventually George sat up, looking at me with giant, darkened eyes, smiling like he is watching an amusing scene. Then I got the chills.
Usually ongoing failed attempts at getting George to bed would be more annoying than scary, but I was reading a book about people who had near death experiences. The book's stories were mainly about how people who had NDEs were confronted by dead relatives. The spookiest of the encounters were when someone met a relative they didn't know they had until they came back to life. Like a young girl who told her parents she met her brother, but was confused because she didn't have a brother, but the parents, brought to tears, said they never told her she did have a brother, but he died three months before she was born. Another story, was a woman who called her doctor to tell him that, even though her daughter was diagnosed with terminal cancer, her daughter was going to live, and she knew this because of a dream her daughter had. Her daughter explained that she dreamed of her recently deceased father, and he told her, "Don't worry, this is not going to be your death, you'll live through this." The mom wasn't convinced by the words, it was when the daughter was explaining how her dad looked, he was young and wearing a yellow shirt and fedora hat, the daughter found this odd, since she'd never seen her dad wearing a fedora. The mother immediately believed her daughter's dream was an encounter with her father because she described what he wore on their honeymoon, and her daughter never knew this.

Needless to say, the stories had the hairs standing up on the back of my neck. The silence of George's room, and his spontaneous bursts of happiness, had my mind reeling. I thought, George was having full blown party with my dead ancestors. I didn't work up the courage to shout, "Hey, Pops! I need to get some rest here, can you let the boy sleep?!"
The creepiness intensified after I'd leave George's room, hoping he'd stay in bed. I walked to my room, laying in bed, returning to my book. I heard a door creak, and knew it was George. Then I'd get up, and look down the hallway where I was greeted with an image that is akin to Hollywood Ghost Movies. George is standing in the crack of the doorway, his head at doorknob level. His eyes are shadowed by the darkness, and his little figure is perfectly still. Although I can't see his eyes, I feel him looking directly at me, with his chin jutted down, and belly sticking out.
I have to pretend to be very pissed, rather than creeped out, and I stomp down there blaring empty threats like, "This is the last time, then I'm locking the door. Lay down, and don't get up!"
I laid next to him. After a couple minutes, he sat up, like he were tanning his back on a beach blanket and looked up to take in the beach surroundings. This time his gigantic smile wasn't directed at me, his eyes were looking over my shoulder. I said, "Lay down, George, and go to sleep."

Then I walked quickly back to my room, and told my husband, "You got to go in there and deal with him because he is freaking me out." After he wrapped up some work, he walked down the hall, and laid in bed with George. I looked at the monitor and watched them, George laying on his stomach, occasionally kicking his legs in a playful swimming motion, and my husband's face lit up by the screen of his phone.
Then I curled up on my bed, and cracked my book open, where I continued reading about people who nearly died, and flew around a new dimension, talking to their dead relatives.

You Ain't Got No Alibi

Yesterday, as we roamed around the backyard, Kiki asked me, "What is ugly?"
I told her I don't know for certain, it's a subjective classification that I've seen used more as a mechanism of violence, a word used to cut someone at the knees, regardless of truth.
Naturally, I thought of Donald Trump, who seems armed with a litany of violent language he uses to silence any woman affronting his ideals, and because this violent talk is targeted towards women, it is most definitely sexist.

Donald's transparent statement, "there was blood coming from her everywhere," equates to, "She was being mean to me because she is on her period," and to anyone who isn't 13 years old, this statement is not a valid reason why he lost a debate. The Fox news anchor Donald accused of menstruating looks like a real life Barbie doll. Her looks probably made Donald assume tossing her a couple compliments will lead way to her allowing him to moronically pontificate, while she giggles in agreement. Backfire. Donald might want all women to look like Miss America, but he shouldn't assume that all women who look like Miss America, are only interested in putting a crystal crown on their head.

Donald is quoted in September's Rolling Stones calling Carly Fiorina ugly, and saying her looks will be the primary reason no one will vote for her. Fiorina, like the Fox news Barbie doll, could hardly conjure up an eye roll in reaction to Trump's childish antics. It's ludicrous that these words are even given the ink to be printed, but sexist hate speech sells magazines and raises TV ratings, so as Trump does the rounds, the media can sell more advertising and feel accomplished in making money, oh, I mean, disseminating relevant political news.

Kiki, remembering another story we read about ugliness, asked, "The ugly duckling is ugly?'
I scrunched up my nose, and said, "But he really wasn't ugly, Kiki. He just didn't know who he was. After seeing himself for who he really is, he learned he is beautiful."
Going To The Sea Park is what sparked Kiki's curiosity on defining "ugly." The book is about a field trip to an aquarium, and a couple of the beginning pages describe how different fish look. I'm grateful Kiki didn't ask about the next page, that says, "Some fish are thin. Some fish are fat." Because even though fat and thin are more easily explained, my daughter will come off as a Donald Trump level asshole if she starts loudly pointing out if someone is fat or thin.

A Blood Moon Pope Weekend

I tried to watch the Pope's mass being broadcast from Philadelphia. Kiki was not having it, and after ten minutes demanded Disney Jr, so I recorded it to watch later.

When we were watching the mass Kiki maintained interest by repeatedly asking me what the Pope, priest, alter servers are wearing under their robes. She kept asking me, "What is under his robe?" I don't know for certain, but I told her my best guess, pants and a shirt.

Kiki's fascination with naked people has me optimistic she will pursue a career as a doctor. One time at a breakfast diner, she had me take her to the bathroom three times until I figured out she was captivated by a poster of Burt Reynolds posing on a bear skin rug, his infamous Centerfold shot, and wanted to chat about it. A relative of ours works at Mattel and brings Kiki a new Barbie every time we meet up. Upon opening the box, Kiki requests all the clothes be stripped off, regardless of if she is a dazzling holiday Barbie queen, or the most adorable sporty lifeguard, she is nude, and Kiki happily runs off examining her naked doll.

Of the Pope's mass, I was able to watch the beginning of the second reading. I found it suited my defeated disposition, and even considered the reading to be serendipitous. I needed to hear that if you have a hand that sins, cut it off, it's better to go to heaven maimed than go to Gehenna with two hands. I'm battling my own personal daemon, and it's humbling to realize that there is a time when, symbolically, cutting off my hand is going to serve a greater purpose, going to allow me to live a meaningful life. There could be a culmination of cosmic energy, the super blood moon and eclipse, that paved the way for a literal punch in the face, wake up call, on how to be a better person.
I don't ever remember hearing about blood moons before this last year, but I find it hard to believe that they are a new phenomena, since celestial settings are pretty much a constant at this point, aside from the misclassification of Pluto. I went on Twitter, and the first fifty tweets were about the blood moon, and the next fifty were about the pope, demonstrating a powerful collective consciousness this weekend. I've been reading a lot on parapsychology lately. Last night I read about proven effects of collective consciousness, one example being how random number generators are not random, showing patterns, at times where there is a strong collection of consciouses, like during the OJ Simpson Trial, 9/11, and Obama's first presidency win. Maybe Blood Moons are a study of collective consciouses, and this is all research conducted on the population and our collected focus, because I find it so peculiar that blood moons have only recently come into existence, and they occur so damn frequently.
My sister Lacey has been on Pope watch all day long. She called me throughout the day to give me Pope updates. She lives in Philly, where the Pope energy is palpable, and she was completely enthralled. First, she told me about how the Pope is rad because he drives a Fiat, and is going to open the world's eyes to environmental issues. Then she called to tell me he is having very bad sciatica, and looks pained. She informed me he prays at least two hours a day, which I think sounds right, since he's the pope. She was laughing as she told me he pulled his Fiat up to the back of the American Airlines plane, a hilariously inappropriate place to park a tiny car. She hung up, and then called me back minutes later. I picked up the phone to her laughing hysterically, telling me that a news reporter just explained how a congressman acted sheepish because he was caught stealing the Pope's water glass as a souvenir. After we stopped laughing, and got back to talking, she took a long drawn out sigh, and asked, "I wonder if the Pope is wearing underwear?"

This Weird Thing That Happened

Back To School Night Day

Over a decade ago, I went to a party with my parents. As I talked to their two friends, a married couple, the husband acted really interested in what I was saying, which I can assure you, was rather uninteresting details about school or work. I soon sensed he was being flirtatious, and his eye contact was unnecessarily strong. I chose to act like I didn't notice. Really, when someone is coming at you, ignoring them only wets their appetite more. I didn't linger in the conversation longer than I had to, but an unspoken communication occurred that stayed with me much longer than whatever was spoken between the three of us.
The wife of the duo gave me a look of disdain after noticing her husband acting like a coquettish tipsy man-harlot. I took the grief she should have directed toward him. I was in a position where I couldn't win. Had I acted rude to the husband in a nod of sisterly camaraderie to the woman, she would have similarly scolded me through dirty looks and negative energy for being presumptuous and cocky, assuming her husband would be openly flirtatious with me. By staying there, remaining polite and acting naive, I came off as relishing in flattery and a little bit of a cock tease.
In the end, it's over, and I feel fine knowing there was nothing I could do to make the situation better.

Unspoken interactions are complex, and not because of an unsureness of what the other person's saying, its as if their feelings come through crystal clear, bizarrely since its communicated almost telepathically through eye contact and body language. Maybe it's "sexual tension" that can be as loud as spoken language, yet,
even in a crowd full of people, only the people entangled in the moment are tuned into the airwaves loaded with lusty messages.

Last night was Kiki's back to school night. As a person who doesn't go out much, I was reminded how bizarre it can be in a room of people who don't know each other. It started out as most social settings, with everyone sizing each other up. I sat in the back row, and asked a couple questions about the reading and writing program goals. After the group Q and A, all the parents moved to their kid's respective classroom.
Moving through the crowd, I followed Kingsley's teacher, a woman who is barely 5 feet tall, and is as maternal as she is cuddly, like a late in life Queen Victoria, but in her early twenties with tattoos up her calves and ankles. I looked up, meeting eyes of people passing by. There were twinkling eyes from people who seem social and happy. I made a mental note, these are the people to approach next time at an uncomfortable social gathering. Then there were eyes I met that looked unkindly on me, shooting darts. Then there were the fuck me eyes, accompanied with a tiny grin, the kind of look that makes me think they'd be easy to entice, or do the enticing, for a fuck in the coat closet. Look away.

Maybe the eye contact is all a figment of my imagination, cooked up from sexual frustration but, regardless, in the end I feel dirty. My interpretations could be a form of paranoia, which seems more likely than the other option, that I'm reading their mind or confidently assessing their thoughts the same way a psychic does a cold reading.
There is no doubt I have paranoid tendencies. Just the other day at the gym I noticed a speck glimmering on the ceiling, and my first thought was that the glimmering speck was a tiny camera, implanted in the ceiling to get a look at me talking to myself while on the treadmill. That day, I was rather anxious, so as I was jogging, I tried to make myself feel better by practicing a confidence building mantra. If the glimmering speck was a camera, then it witnessed me running with headphones, listening to music I'd occasionally sing along to, drop off deep in thought, and then come to, quietly and firmly chanting to myself, "You are a good person."
I use the same treadmill every time I go the gym, and never noticed the glimmering speck in the ceiling, which I found odd since running in the same place for an hour makes memorizing the space unavoidable. The spider webs in the corner of the giant plexiglass window made me skeptical of the worldwide conspiracy that a camera was implanted, since someone would surely tidy up that mess after going through the trouble of climbing a ladder to reach that height. Then again, tidying up the unkept space might call attention to the tiny camera.

Talking to a therapist about this harmless paranoia is fruitless, since the therapist would be in on the conspiracy, throwing fuel on the fire, igniting me to make an even bigger spectacle of myself. Much like seeing a therapist for entertaining bouts of paranoia wouldn't be helpful, reading body language is not really rewarding. Reading body language is as fleeting as reading Twitter. By the time the moment passes, there is an entire new list of messages to review, and the passing moment took along all the feelings perceived earlier, they dissolved the instant the moment moved forward. There is the lingering filth though, it leaves a film like a bathtub thats recently drained, and that residue blends with whatever new thoughts pop in my head.

Better Off Hit By A Car

Don't hit me!! It was a dream from a lifetime ago.

Last night, shortly after falling asleep, I woke up from a nightmare. I dreamt a violent sequence, of which, I mostly remember someone bloody and beaten, tied to a chair, having their brains extracted through their nose with a meat hook. I was scared to fall back to sleep because I didn't want to have another dream like this. I was also scared this awful scene could be a premonition of some sort, making my return to a restful state rather difficult. I checked the time, it was only 9:40.
The other day I watched a dream analyst on The Real Housewives of New York. The gals shared dreams of teeth falling out or feet being stuck when needing to move, the kind of things a Google search would suffice rather than an in-the-flesh dream analyst.
My reoccurring dream is finding myself in a panic, realizing I forgot to attend a class for the entire term, and that day is the final exam that I will undoubtedly fail. I think the dream shows I have post traumatic stress from many years of school. Finals week was always a torturous time, but I managed to pull through, feeling euphoric relief when the tests were over, and always performing better than expected.
The weeks leading up to finals, I'd worry endlessly. I'd be so stricken by stress that I'd often wish I'd be hit by a car. The desire would strike as I marched out of the library to the parking lot. I'd think, "If only I'd get hit by a car, right now. I'd be hospitalized through finals, and my teachers would need to give me a passing score."
My little sister, Becky, went to school in Brownsville, Texas, which is, as she says and many others, the ugliest place on earth. If you Google "Brownsville and Shithole" there are hundreds of links. My sister was walking to her dorm room during finals week, and as she crossed zebra stripes in the road, a car ran right into her, flinging her body onto the hood of the car. The driver jumped out of the car in fear, thinking he just killed someone. Aside from a bruise on her hip, she was fine, but the driver, on the other hand, began unraveling into a stage-5 panic attack. He kept asking Becky, "Are you okay? Are you sure you're alright?" and Becky kept reassuring him she was fine.
She said it came to a point where she found herself comforting him with back-rubbing sympathy. Maybe he thought he was talking to a ghost, but she tired of soothing the man who just ran into her, and realized she needed to get back to studying. After saying goodbye, she limped away from the scene. Hearing her tell me this story is one of those sad times where dreams fall short in reality, since she still had to study and sit for her exam.

I told my mom about my reoccurring dream of finals panic, and she said, "Stress, Alicia. It's stress." My mom should look into being a dream analyst, because that is a pretty spot on interpretation. The dream is like a gun shot to my chest of anxiety, panic and stress, and when I wake up, I feel a million times better knowing I didn't fail to complete my education, waste thousands of dollars and disappoint my watchful family because I simply forgot to go to class.
I think my murderous nightmare from last night is because I'm planning to see Black Mass this Friday. Yesterday, I was watching TV when a preview for the movie came on, and Kiki asked me, "Whats' that?" I threw my hand over her eyes, and said, "Thats scary stuff, Kiki. Don't watch." She moved my hand, and stared at the TV, with the same rubber-neck interest as passing a car accident.

Crackerjack Wilderness Girl

Fallen tree branch

A massive branch fell from a tall tree in the front yard. Luckily it fell street-side, and didn't impale our roof. After looking out my bedroom window, and noticing the monstrosity, I went outside and pulled it completely onto the lawn, where it sat like a beached whale for a couple days. On Sunday I went to Home Depot and bought a hand saw so I could break it down. Bit by bit I deconstructed it, and pushed the branches into the green waste bin like I was piecing together an enormous flower arrangement.

With a long list of things to do before my friends came over, I started ticking things off one at a time; grocery shopping, gym, moving old furniture, showering and cooking. Notice I didn't list cleaning the house, that's because I never made it to that point on the list. So my friends came over to a house that was barely surface clean.
Before I could put the food in the oven, I needed to clean it out with a concoction of vinegar and baking soda because the day before I accidentally spilled bacon fat onto the oven floor, making the house fill with smoke and a bizarre fish odor. With my head in the oven, I chatted with my friends, all the time thinking, "Why do I even bother trying to maintain a social life when it ends up being a pain in the ass?" After that mess was quickly cleaned, the food started to cook.
When we sat down to eat, they asked for napkins. I searched the cabinets, but couldn't find a single one, not even a Starbucks napkin I usually stash in the junk drawer. I told them I meant to buy napkins at the store while grocery shopping, and forgot to, which was a lie. We are dish towel people, and even if we dirty 15 a day, I don't mind. I am not sure how we exist without buying paper towels and napkins, since there is a common unfathomable reaction from people. "You mean you don't buy paper towels?" "No, I don't. I have towels I use to clean, I have towels for cooking, and I have towels to use when eating." It's not a complicated system, but for some reason it has people thinking were back woods.

When my friends decided to pack up and leave, Kiki and I followed them out to give enthusiastic farewell waves, like their black car was the Titanic setting course. I figured our pathetic display of hostessing would get us out of any obligation to hang out for a while, but no such luck, and she mentioned meeting up next weekend.

After Kiki was asleep, I cleaned the house to the state it should have been in before my friends showed up, and called my sister to gab on the phone. I told her how my my dinner party was the worst example of entertaining, a word I've picked up from watching loads of House Hunters, but yet my friend stills wants to hang out next weekend. My sister said, "she was probably happy to see someone who is in a bigger state of chaos then herself. The last thing a mom wants to see after working a 50 hour week is a person who seems to be doing it all, plus some, much better. You're making her feel good about herself."
Maybe if I left the branch, I could have put on a better dinner party for my guests, but I had a call of the wild. Hacking away at the tree felt amazing. I might not have been the perfect Beverly Hills wife, but I was definitely A Cracker Jack Wilderness Girl. I forgot to buy napkins, but it really just added to the ambiance, that were all roughing it.

Another Troop Beverly Hills reference, "He permed me!"

Unexpected Number Two

A blog Sing-along

There is one reason why I don't like rolling out of bed and going on a jog. Its easier, even with 70 pounds of babies in a stroller, to go after I drink water, have coffee, feed the kids breakfast and read books. The reason why I like to wait until my body is fully awake sounds like, "Die Maria," or "Dime Arena," or "Diner Rita."
In my household there is a song one sings after being struck by an immediate urge to rush to the bathroom. After leaving the restroom, in an operatic tone, they sing, "Unexpected Number Twooooo," followed in a lower tone, "Unexpected Number Twoooo."
I am potty training George right now. It is a slow process, but were getting there. He likes to tell me he has to poop (he calls pee and poop, poop) and I prop him on the toilet. He could sit on the toilet, pop off, flush the toilet, and climb back on the potty, for an hour, without a drip of pee coming out of him. He eventually gets bored of this, and wanders away from the bathroom, then he gets struck with the urge to pee, and finds the floor the most suitable place to go.
The other day, we were eating breakfast, and I could tell George was having poop stress, and needed to use the toilet. I cleaned him up, and we went to the bathroom. As he sat on the toilet, I sat on my bed, just outside the open bathroom door, watching Real Housewives of New York Secrets Revealed. I think I was absorbed in Dorinda talking about waitressing when I noticed George walk by me and down the hall. I figured he was going to get a toy, and didn't really have to poop. I stayed sitting, feeling no urgency to follow him and throw super absorbent training pants on him.
Moments later he walked back into my room, and red faced started flexing his body. I immediately knew what he was doing, trying to push out a poop.
I screamed, "Stoooop!!" but it was too late. I lifted him under his armpits, and swung him onto the toilet. When I poked my head out of the bathroom, there it was, his turd, on the floor. Its weird seeing human poop on the floor, but it looks like dog poop, and I treated it as such.
I felt like yelling at George, "Your sister never, NEVER, took a doodoo on the ground George. I am appalled. I would keep you in diapers till your three if I didn't worry about psyche problems. I don't want you having visual memories of me wiping your butt hole while singing, 'I'll get you cleaned up. Wooo Whooo.'"

It actually wasn't super gross, more alarming. I don't have a dog, but it was on par with having to pick up doo out of the yard. I am becoming immune to anything disgusting. George is still fascinated with throwing things in the toilet, and I have to dive my hand in there once a week, and each time I get less grossed out. Hopefully I don't get to a point where I question if antibacterial soap is necessary after fishing a sopping roll of toilet paper out of the toilet. I wouldn't like to get to a point where I simply wipe the toilet water from my arm onto my pants and then pick up my burrito to take a big bite. These kids. They're ruining me. In a good way.

As promised, here is the song: