American Girl

            With Christmas nearing, I asked my daughter what she wants, and she listed loads of accessories for her lovely Mary Ellen doll. American Girl Dolls exist so upper middle class whites feel as if their daughters have minority friends, like Kaya, whose back-story is as impressive as my great-great-great Grandmas.

            My mom said they called her Grandma Hatchet. It was a much less caring time. She was a Cherokee Indian who walked the Trail of Tears; the US government has documented it. She worked as a prostitute and didn’t speak a word of English.

Or so we thought. My mom did her 23&Me, and it sent shock waves through the family to learn we don’t have any Native American in us. So Great-great-great-grandma Hatchet’s story has us all at a loss. The most probable explanation being she was a grade-A dummy, taken in by one of the most marginalized groups in America, selling her metaphorical kitty at less-than-market value.

It’s not all bad; she did get a kid out of it. A son she named King. So I guess she did know one word English. There is a slight identity loss, like now that were not 1/64^th Cherokee Indian, we have to take more personal accountability for our alcoholism.

Talking with my mom on the phone, she starts spilling the tea on my relative switching from wine to vodka to cut calories. My mom said, “That’s a bad idea because of our Indian blood.”

“Ummm, mom. I don’t think you can say that anymore.”

She made it seem like that was up for debate.

I guess taking down my massive dream catcher is up for debate too because I didn’t buy it to be ironic. My Cherokee affectation was already on questionable terms, as I wasn’t even close to qualifying for Indian casino payouts, but I just like the style so much, I’m drawn to it and willing to slightly steamroll.

A friend played Nick Cave’s “Stagger Lee” and my ears perked up when he said Bucket of Blood. “Oh, how lovely, he’s talking about my old stomping ground,” I said in an English accent because I like to do that sometimes. With the mention of Lake Tahoo, I continued in my accent, “Does he live in Northern California?” Then I offered my guest a cuppa.

It doesn’t matter where Nick Cave lives, he is doing late 1800’s Northern Nevada better than people in the late 1800’s Northern Nevada.

I went to the mall to return a hat I bought. The sales lady asked my reason for the return, and I let her know, “Temporary insanity. I realized I don’t work at The Blue Oyster in Police Academy.”

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I will be at the mall a lot over the next two months. I started a seasonal retail job because of the long teaching break and my kids being away Thanksgiving week and the week after Christmas. The best anecdote to looming mental health issues from too much isolation, the human connection, and there is no better way to participate in the physical social network, than Black Friday! In addition to avoiding the mean reds, I get an amazing store discount. Imagining all the retail benefits, well, that confirms what my genetics won’t, I’m 100% American Girl.

Nice shirt, Becky

Lorena's Morning Vibes

I watched Lorena on Netflix. It’s a four-part series on the Lorena and John Bobbitt trial from 1993. The first part is full of comedic undertones as police are interviewed about the incident of Lorena chopping off John’s penis. Initially the cops went to level ten, and theorized she swallowed the chopped off penis, which made me think, “There’s no way someone could SWALLOW a penis!”

But then there is a picture of said penis, and I realized, “Well look at that!! That’s a penis that could be swallowed.” It looked like the last bite of an Aidells smoked chicken sausage.

The most knee-slapping moment is when the investigators go back to the field where they miraculously found the tiny nub to take a photo of the location where it was discovered. The picture is a long-shot of a man standing with him arm outstretched and his finger pointing down.

Another detective talks about Lorena’s interrogation, and how she said, “He always has an orgasm, and I never get to have an orgasm.” And as the first part of the series wraps up, a snip from an interview with Lorena propels the idea that she is a dick-cutting-off-maniac because she falls back cackling after acknowledging her act. However, over the next three parts, it becomes crystal clear John Bobbitt is a delusional, fame-seeking, abuser who should have his penis cut off again.

I’ve had my kids for the entire month of October, and it feels a lot like when I was married. No more staying up till midnight and watching TV and texting, I find myself laying right in between the two of them and falling asleep at 9. When we get home in the evening it’s marathon time; homework, dinner, packing backpacks, laying out clothes and reading, jammed into two hours. I wake up early to get some meditative time before the day starts, but spend it laying under a hello kitty blanket on my couch drinking cup after cup of coffee. The key to consuming gallons of coffee in the morning; creamer, it makes it chugging temperature. I manage to have alone time in my office, but I have to work, so it’s not truly a moment worth relishing.

A creature started scratching under my house two weeks ago. Initially, I thought it had to be a daemon clawing itself up from hell and though my heater vent to kill us. After some deep breathing, the most sensible conclusion came to me; a rodent is under my house and is trying to fraternize with the kitten.

My neighbor found last month full of opportune times to let me know I don’t water my grass enough, and that I have a hole in my particle board fence. I decided to confound his list by telling him about the creature under my house, and then he pointed his finger to my crawl space, describing their ramshackle condition.

A gross smell took hold a week ago. Initially, I thought it was strange that a bag of cut and washed Jolly Green Giant broccoli was stinking up my house from the crisper drawer inside the fridge. After some really shallow breathing, the most sensible conclusion came to me, a rodent under my house, trying to fraternize with my kitten, has died. Call pest control was added to my mental to-do list.

My November horoscope confirmed this month would be a lessening from the slog of October.  Were four days in, and the smell has gone away, so there goes that to-do item. It’s like the rodent was never here. Because of daylight savings, I put my kids to bed at 7 o’clock, and I’m having some personal time. And in a few days, we’ll be back on our usual family schedule. It would be nice if I planned to use my upcoming free time to tackle some home improvements, but I will likely dedicate that time to watching Netflix mini-series and taking long daytime naps.

Lorena, she must never have a bad day. Every day is a good day since she took the time to cut some dick out of her life. After October, I commend all the full-time single moms, and all those non-single-moms who still do it all. You’re horoscope might predict some break on the horizon, but if not, that to-do list sometimes has a way of taking care of itself, and try to catch Lorena. Spoiler alert: the good guy wins.

Fashion Forward

I’m the most fashion forward when I’m packing a suitcase for vacation. For some reason all the clothes I neglect during my everyday life lure me into believing I will have a completely different attitude about them when I’m in a foreign land. Big shocker, whenever I get where I’m going, I unzip my suitcase and regret every packing decision, and I have to spend the entire week in the least adventurous outfit, egg-shell culottes and a hot pink crop top with “Barbie” across the chest.

            I went on a cruise in April, and found myself in the usual predicament of accusing my 12-hour-before-self of being a masochistic saboteur, who took pleasure in my having nothing comfortable to wear. I couldn’t even rely on making a bathing suit everyday wear, because the sun crept behind the clouds the day we set foot on the boat, and our ride along the Pacific coast into Mexico had the grey chilliness of a February afternoon in San Francisco.

            I was forced to wear the weird clothes I bought off Amazon at 1 am after looking at over sexualized Instagram models and boring Pinterest lifestyle bloggers. So I put on a bandeau halter-top and some neon bike shorts and took part in the cruise ship initiation, hitting up the buffet line. I decided I wasn’t going to drink alcohol on the cruise because of a really bad scene the weekend before.

            I went to San Francisco with the guy I was seeing. On the drive down, I knew it was going to be a bad night because the sight of him was making me angry. I decided to put a cork in my emotional buildup by drinking a million beers, so eventually my conscious self went to sleep, and I let the hired hand within me take care of verbally murdering this person I shared a bed with every other weekend. The drive home from San Francisco in the morning was dreadful. I felt terrible, and wanted to fast forward to when this time was just a speck. I said to him, “How about you just punch me in the face, and we call it even?” He didn’t take me up on the offer, he was relishing too much in his power. Needless to say, we broke up, but not for another two months because it took me some time to crawl out of that shame hole I fell into.

            Lucky for me, I don’t need alcohol to embarrass myself, and on my sober cruise ride I found a great opportunity to insert myself into a situation where I had a theater size audience, because we were in a theater waiting for a show to start. An entitled Southern socialite plopped down into the saved seats of a young family. The young woman quietly pleaded for the lady to move from the seats, but the old sourpuss continuously waved her off with a flip of her hand.

I took it upon myself to defend the honor of the woman who was doing a piss poor job of working up the gusto to call the seat stealer an asshole hemorrhoid. After shouting, “Hey Lady!!” I noticed all the young kids surrounding us.

Following that up with some variant of, ‘Move your bitch ass,” was not going to work without making me seem worse off than the seat stealer, so I shouted in an overly emotional voice, “You are being so mean!” My parents looked at me horrified, probably wishing I was drunk, and so did the 30 people within this circle of extreme social awkwardness. Thank god my parents love me no matter what stupid shit I do because after my outburst of caring too much, I slowly sat down and dusted off my acid washed jeggings and straightened out the beaded fringe on my Miley Cyrus belly shirt, and we all looked ahead like the minute before was a distant memory.

            My interjecting was ineffectual. The lady didn’t move from the seat. For the remainder of the cruise I couldn’t escape her. I frequently saw her, and not in the most becoming ways, usually balancing four desserts and a pizza I planned to eat while watching a movie next to the dirty disgusting pool my kids played in.

            Infatuation is an STD, and the remedy is the eventual unveiling of the person who passed it on. Scars from embarrassing times also vanish. I don’t really think about the beginning-of-the-end in San Francisco or my unsuccessful attempt at being the morality police. These moments add up to nothing in the infinite space of people that genuinely love you. In the words of the young philosopher, Miley Cyrus, “Forget the haters because somebody loves ya.”  On that note, I’ll start dressing how I see myself on vacation because it really doesn’t matter. Not even the tiniest bit.

Barbie crop top exists

First Day Back

I’m back, and it’s like I never left. Now that I’m not teaching high school (more on that in a bit) I can be my online-self again.

My kids started school this week, and it couldn’t come fast enough. It’ll be nice to be back on a schedule, so I don’t draw a blank when their dad asks, “When was the last time they took a bath?”

I thought swimming counts as one.

In a couple weeks, we’ll find ourselves in those uncomfortable parent-teacher conferences, and after the deconditioning over this unstructured summer, I’m already anxious. I admit, parent-teacher conferences have improved each year. My daughter’s about to turn eight, and she still might be working some of that delivery Pitocin out of her system. It pains me that her teachers don’t use my preferred label, Indigo Child. When I walk into these meetings, I’m prepared for the teacher to change into her doctor costume, and it’s not the slutty kind, but the serious kind. Then listen to her diagnose my kid with a slew of mental afflictions.

Last year’s wasn’t bad. In fact, it was the best one yet. My daughter’s teacher started with, “Were all different, and that’s ok!”

After the teacher opened up the floor, my ex, told us at length how his parents say he was just like our daughter as a kid; a clumsy little girl with her head in the clouds. When he wrapped that up, they both looked at me for insight, how my parents perceived me as a kid. I’m the middle child of 5 kids, all born within 6 years. My parents didn’t know shit about me till I was 25.

My ex and I Co-parent, which basically means we can’t let our kids feel any added stress from living in two households because when they get more stress, it makes us ALL look bad. Like by getting so angry their eraser ripped through their paper, they throw their kindergarten chair. That is not a fun parent-teacher conference either, but at least I can add insight. “My children get their emotional range from me, and that’s why I can’t drink hard alcohol.”

After hearing that, the teacher pulls out her medical chart and makes a notation, and she wasn't even in costume.

I’m back to primarily teaching college students because the Mercury Retrograde in July took me on a wild ride! I was offered a job, quit a job, and then unoffered the job I quit the job for. Sounds confusing, but it turned out to unfold into exactly what I needed.

In the beginning of July I received a message on LinkedIn about a position. I applied and had an interview soon after, that was followed up by a second interview. It moved quickly, and I felt good about it, so I wasn’t surprised when they emailed, offering me a position. I immediately told the high school I was teaching at that I would not be returning for the upcoming school year. I jumped the gun, but felt it was necessary because they needed time to find a replacement.

            I replied to the job offer, stating my excitement, and also inquiring about a slight increase in the pay they offered. Two days of radio silence. During this time in limbo, my mom calls me every couple hours to see if they’ve written back, adding to the stress, but it was like she knew this shit wasn’t happening. She might be on the spectrum too, but the psychic spectrum.

And those feelings were confirmed after receiving an email that started with, we’ve decided to go in a different direction. I nearly choked on my tongue and felt dreadfully unemployed for a quick minute. It dawned on me, the last year I had insurance and I failed to get new glasses, go to the dentist and have another baby. For the first time, all those things seemed really important.

A friend was over when I read the email, and it was hard to digest all this change with a witness. My initial reaction would be to go take a nap for three days, but I managed to keep all my thoughts in a positive direction. With a nudge to be proactive, I wrote my other boss, asking for available classes at the college. Seven am the next morning, he emailed, and sure enough gave me more classes, so I’m totally sitting pretty, and after that roller coaster ride, I understand why all this happened.

            There are couple reasons I needed to leave my job. The first, a classic case of inner-office romance gone thumbs-down. The second, I let my gutter mind vent on stage too often to not get caught, and I’d hate for my foul mouth to cause an unnecessary drama, where I’m left feeling like I’m a bad person. The shame game can be strong amongst some groups, and they don’t give a shit about all of Brené Brown’s research. 

            I’m grateful for the flexibility of being an adjunct, now I get to volunteer at my kids’ school. Their dad sent me the drop off picture from the first day. The temperature was predicted to be 107 degrees, and my daughter was wearing a long sleeve shirt. When I picked them up at the end of the day, my daughter let me know she had fun, and then asks, “Why’d you pack me a freaking long-sleeve shirt?”

            I looked around, to assess the scene. I think only one person heard. I whispered, “You can’t say freaking!”

            Obviously, she has been hanging out with my mother.

            Then she said, “You need to sign the permission slip for me to see Miss Tracy.”

            Miss Tracy is the school counselor, and my daughter would prefer to spend her entire school day sitting cross-legged on Miss Tracy’s couch, drinking lemonade, and gossiping about everyone in her life. This completely innate behavior can’t be blamed on my mother, her father, or too much delivery Pitocin. She probably just likes the audience, getting all the trash out of her head, and I’m glad she has a safe space to be herself. I get it.

Note: I plan on publishing old posts, but as I go through them I actually seize from embarrassment. It’s mostly the post-divorce stuff. As I read some of it, I feel like maybe I should have seen a therapist instead of my keyboard after eight cups of coffee. I like the stories about raising my babes. It used to piss me off when my brother called my blog a mom-blog, but fuck it, it’s a mom-blog, and I’m happy to be back!

Braggadocios

Were all born naked, the rest is drag, -RuPaul Charles

Winter seems to be wrapping up around here in Northern California. I'm so quick to jump the gun, the kids and I went to Target and bought bathing suits to prepare for summer. Even though this winter is mild compared to last year, it seemed we had a lot more consecutive days of grey. I was combatting the blues before we had our unexpected burst of great weather. It could be the grey, the unknown, really a combination of variables, like mid-January unexpectedly finding out Bertha accompanied my kids on a New Years trip to Southern California. Whose Bertha? Oh, it's a fictitious name for the woman my kids hang out with every other weekend. I think it's a great name that really reflects her big hearted, stern and charming personality. When I get the chance to meet Bertha, I'll change the name if necessary.

There is a surprise around every corner these days, but some are pretty cool. Like I got hired to teach at Sac State in a whirlwind, and so this term I'm working at two campuses. Teaching offers quite a bit of flexibility, but I keep telling people, I want to reign in a full time thing by fall because driving all around and not having the stability 4 months out, is really for a different cut of person than myself.

I'm still applying for office jobs, and thought I was getting one after the HR screening lady and me had such a great chat. I thought I did well on the critical thinking test she sent me. I told my friend Deborah at work, "I think I failed the personality test!"
I kept answering this one question over and over again, cementing my inclination to not tell people when I do something great. I figure it's good to be humble, but in retrospect, they want braggadocios. Even the word "braggadocios" is braggadocios, and makes me feel stupid.
Deborah and I spend hours on Tuesdays talking about everything. She's a brilliant PhD from Berkley, whose maybe 75, and she comforted me by saying, "You know, most of the time those jobs go to people's friends, so don't worry too much about the personality test."
She's right. Plus, fuck a personality test.

A new years resolution was to implement a morning routine that will keep me focused for the day. I wake up early and do a bit of journaling and then meditative exercises. It works well if I go to bed at 8pm. During meditative time, I usually picture myself on the beach, watching the waves and soaking up sun. For some reason, after the first week of school, I started visualizing myself laying on a gigantic rose petal, lounging into the flower. It was so soft and comfortable.

Two weeks ago Oprah and RuPaul had a great Super Soul Conversation. It was so good I've already listened to it four times. During one part they talk about being confronted with people who are aggressive, rude or just an overall shit thorn in the side, both of them said, "It isn't even about you!" I kind of already had this notion brewing in my head, but when someone comes into class the first week and every things a big problem, and they can't get over this hurdle of everything being a gigantic problem, and it makes them rude and aggressive, I become a bit disheartened, and in a grand attempt to not have a negative attitude poison the well, I give cliche speeches on being successful and having respect for everyone in the class.

RuPaul talks about how he gives pep talks to the contestants, and really he's telling this stuff to himself. I feel like these watered down Tony Robbins talks I have with the kids at school is really the same. I am telling myself this shit just as much as them.

My kids and I came up to Tahoe for fresh air. I had a realization while running; the last month of grey and rain is coming to an end. Spring is coming. I am going to get a job, find a house. For some reason I was listening to music from a decade ago. It was like I was back in my Dodge Neon sitting in traffic on the 405 listening to 103.1, think Lazy Eye and Neon Bible.

Ten years ago, my cousin and I lived close to Venice Beach. Even though the traffic in LA is absolutely insane, you never have to worry about combating the SADs. My cousin is now living in the Pacific Northwest and had to invest in some giant light screen to keep her spirits high. I'm thinking I might get one of those too, for next winter, get it in an off season sale.

I am a positive person, and I like it. I like feeling good. I like making other people feel good, but it takes work to maintain that Positive State of Mind.

This morning my mom and I just went off the rails and had a lovely gossip session while we drank two pots of coffee. After our analysis, I had to point out to her, "Well, after all that, you should stop telling me to get a boyfriend, which sounds more like a prison sentence."
She agreed. Another weird occurrence, I had no idea the Super Bowl was upon us. I wont celebrate my favorite eating holiday this year, and the prize dish, buffalo chicken dip. It's really the missing dip that warrants the sad face emoji here.

Being at my my parents is usually my time to catch up on cable TV, but I recently bought a chrome cast, and using their cable network and password, I can now access all their awesome cable capabilities from my apartment. Night one with my new gadget, I watched 6 hours of Real Housewives Beverly Hills while eating a grocery bag of Indian takeout. I like how the "housewives" are all fancy looking, it gives me some fashion inspiration. I don't like to gussy up for class because I don't want my students to think I'm unapproachable, but I have learned that I don't need to drag it up as some absent minded math nerd, I just need to have bad breath.
Really, my bad breath is inevitable after running around town, living off granola bars. I figure, my breath gives the students something to feel superior. They can band together on this, and have a good laugh, and I can wear my cute clothes without feeling like I'm too braggadocios.

LOVE for my Soul Sister

Fun Bags

My sister rummaged through my closet and pulled out a t-shirt I made for a very unsuccessful run at a craft fair. She held the shirt out at arms length, and squinted as she read, then said, "I don't want to wear a shirt that says 'free hugs.'"
I told her, "Neither do I, and it doesn't say 'free hugs' it says 'fun bags.'"
She didn't want to wear a shirt that says that either.

I texted with my friend who said she's taking her kids to the dentist after going on a long hiatus, and then I got anxious because I haven't taken my kids to the dentist in over a year and a half. The last time I went, the dentist really pissed me off because she had a pleased look on her face as she told me my daughter could use some preventative care to fix her tooth gap. My kid was 4 years old. I wanted to swat the dollar signs out of her eyes with my handbag, and if it hit her in the face, well so be it.

I have an issue with pediatric dentists. After this incident, I thought pediatric dentistry could really use a good examination by 60 Minutes Investigation. These establishments are popping up as profitable franchises in strip malls, where for a couple thousand dollars a year, someone can stab around in your kids mouth for little long term effect.

The pediatric dentist I took my kids to, gave me shit when I told her the kids are not to be x-rayed. I read the article in the New York Times, "Whats the harm of a little radiation," and it made me even more closed off on the idea because I figured, my kid could break their arm after getting their head x-rayed, then need to get that limb x-rayed, and now they've had too much radiation exposure. I figure it would be better to save up for a time where radiation is imperative.

I don't have the confidence to tell people I think pediatric dentistry is a fucking scam. Preschoolers under anesthesia to fill cavities, on teeth that will fall out! Anesthesia is freaking hardcore! That shit should be used in extreme cases, like maybe if those rotting teeth are about to rot the brain. I don't understand why, they don't just pull the teeth out. I get worried, I will come off as some type of flat-earther when I talk about this shit, guided by kooky intuition, and paranoid a professional is trying to profit by putting my child through unnecessary pain and danger. Maybe if I knew all the science behind it, I'd feel better at picketing the industry.

My kids dad called up one day, in great concern that our children wouldn't be exposed to evolution because they go to Catholic school. I reassured him that our kids are most definitely going to be taught evolution. Then I remarked how lucky they are to be presented these theories on a foundation of faith, where most schools need to dispel this information as fact through the lens of atheism. I believe in God, undoubtedly, and want my children to feel there is a purpose to their existence. For science and math to be taught in a philosophical way, it promotes free thinking and advancement. Think of evolution and intention, simultaneously. Major scientific ideas that are cradled to people as truth, are in fact "theories." Lets allow these ideas to be malleable.

My kids and I discuss dinosaurs, and sometimes I present them with this idea, "What if dinosaurs still exist? They live at the bottom of the oceans, and within massive air bubbles deep under the surface of the earth. Lets say these air bubbles and the bottom of the ocean meet up, and it's an entire ecosystem deep within the planet accommodating massive reptilian like creatures. And sometimes after a dinosaur dies, its remains become part of the ground, and eventually works its way up through all the layers of the earth and emerges as a fossil on the surface of our planet..."

I plan to make us dental appointments because its time, but I am not going into any dental office that offers entertainment beyond a small fish tank and a couple outdated Highlights magazines. A room full of video game consoles, and a Keurig drink station, is a sure sign the dentist has whack priorities. The dentist will give me the usual lecture on flossing, and I really will be determined to be better about it. It's always on my new years resolution list, and from Jan 1 - Jan 3, my teeth get their annual floss regimen.

My cousin and I were speaking about our New Years resolutions, and she mentioned wanting to go to bed every night at the same time, and waking up every morning at the same time. I too, have read of these benefits, but when I don't have my kids, I see no point in getting out of bed at 5:30 am, and if I want to watch Netflix till midnight, I just go with it.

I am not an early to bed, early to rise kind of person, and I never have been. It goes against my biology. My grandma used to call me a slug because of how I move about in the morning. I like to sleep till noon. It feels great, and brings on a fantastic show of weird dreams, like this morning, when I dreamed I was on an airplane that emergency landed in such a beautiful place. I was ecstatic as I ran about, looking at dripping icicles, huge flowers, and even mermaids!

My little sister is a natural early riser. I remember when we were kids her favorite show was called Eureka's Castle. I only saw one episode because it was on at like 6 o'clock in the morning. I can picture her, needling around the house at 5 years old, getting herself a little morning snack, and then sitting down to watch her show, as everyone else was asleep. The episode I saw was about a dragon giving the hiccups to someone, in trade for a basketball. I am not sure why that stuck with me, all this time, but after I saw that, I had a really fun time thinking it over.