Just a Day Like Any Other

If you haven’t seen this video, you must. Both moving and chilling, it made me cry. Thanks to Patti for the link.

Five years today seems like a lifetime ago. So much has transpired both in the world and in my own life. I’m sure you could say the same.

That day started out like any other. We had just bought our house and my husband, who was self-employed, was home that day. Like every other morning, PBS dominated the television as my one year old daughter, newly walking, toddled around the house.

Around noon, the phone rang and my best friend, who happened to be in town at her mother’s house, said “Are you watching TV?” and I laughed. “Does Reading Rainbow count?”

“Turn on CNN”

“Okay, hang on. Whoa! What IS that?”

“It’s the World Trade Center”

We would soon find out that a plane crashed into the Pentagon and another in a field in Pennsylvania.

The rest of the day is a blur. The only thing I know for sure is that the TV never went off that day. We were simultaneously horrified and mesmerized by the billowing black smoke and the images of those buildings falling, over and over.

In the days and weeks to come, I cried an immeasurable amount of tears. Each story was sadder than the one before. There seemed to be no end to them.

Five years later, we find ourselves mired in a nonsensical “war” in Iraq. Oil prices are higher than they’ve every been. Iran now has nuclear weapons. And the mastermind behind the 9/11 attacks is still free. *sigh*

My heart continues to go out to all who have lost someone because of what happened on this day five years ago, directly or indirectly and to those who suffer compromised health as a result of being rescue responders. There simply are not adequate words to express how sorry I am.

Peace be with us all.

Everything that could have been…

PLEASE NOTE: If you’re pregnant, you should probably skip this post.

I read something today that brought back a sad memory. In the abstract, it doesn’t really hurt anymore and that is where I keep it. It is the place where I keep all painful memories; that vague place where thoughts and feelings have been forcibly separated. I believe it’s what they call a ‘coping mechanism’.

I can talk about my [tag]miscarriage[/tag] rather clinically and dispassionately now, as if it happened to someone else but sometimes, something — a word, a phrase, a similar story will crack open that door and the memories start furtively darting out, refusing to comply and go back where they belong.

For the second time in two days I have been reminded of the [tag]baby[/tag] that is no more. The one I wanted so badly. My husband was less enthusiastic about the prospect of being a father. He admitted that he was scared but had conceded at my insistence.

We were at a wedding when I started cramping and spotting. I had noticed, in the days previous that I had been feeling less…[tag]pregnant[/tag]. But I was 11 weeks and nearing that first trimester finish line. I assumed that was the reason for my feeling better.

Later that night my doctor met my husband and I at the hospital as my cramps were getting stronger. The doctor couldn’t find a heartbeat. I was told to come to the office the next morning for an ultrasound as there was no technician available.

I went alone, hoping against hope that the doctor was simply mistaken and the baby was fine.

There was still no heartbeat. The fetus only measured 8 weeks. Inside me was our tiny baby and it was no longer alive. I wanted to yell and scream and curse God but I didn’t. I just cried quietly. Nobody comforted me; just a few pats on the back from the nurses and a date for an outpatient [tag]D&C[/tag] the following Friday.

In the days that followed, I cried and mourned and sometimes denied that this was happening. Why hadn’t anyone told me that as many as 50% of all pregnancies end in miscarriage? Why didn’t anyone tell me not to become attached?

Sometimes I swore I could feel my baby move inside me, not wanting to accept that it had probably died weeks before. Not understanding how God could foist death upon me yet again and force me to carry it around inside me.

Why?

Was it me? Did I do something to make this happen?

Bad karma? Bad luck?

Why?

The night before my D&C, I started having contractions. One way or another, it would finally be out of me. But as painful as the contractions were, the baby was not delivered. It was like some cruel joke.

I finally accepted the inevitable when I was on the table in the OR, counting backwards; my [tag]sadness[/tag] drifting away with my psyche on a cloud of general anesthesia. The baby would soon be gone; cut out with a sharp surgical instrument, destined to become medical waste. Everything that could have been would soon be gone. It about ripped my heart out.

My husband was racked with guilt because he hadn’t been more excited about the baby. I simply mourned her (she was a girl in my mind). I still think about her on rare occasions. I’ll do the math, figure out how old she would be now. I still have the EPT somewhere and for a brief moment, when I see it, I’m reminded of how happy I was when those two pink lines appeared.

I was told a thousand times by well-meaning friends and family… “Sometimes there is no reason. It just happens. You can try again.”

While their words seemed awkward and cold at the time, they were right and I did go on to have two more children, both healthy and perfect in every way.

It’s been almost 8 years and until now, I’ve never discussed my feelings about this at length. Nobody that knows you wants to hear about this kind of stuff. They just want you to move on and be normal. So to spare everyone else the discomfort of rubbing elbows with the unpleasantness, I’ve never allowed myself the luxury of talking or writing about it, which always felt vaguely disrespectful. It feels good to acknowledge, out loud (so to speak), that she existed.

And please don’t worry. I’m really okay. This has just been hovering around in the back of my brain, sort of quietly nagging at me to give it a voice, to give it credence. So I finally did.

And if you’ve made it this far, thanks for listening.

A Tale of Two Balls Rides Again

When my husband and I bought our first house, I kept noticing this weird smell around the toilet in the master bathroom. It was vaguely familiar but I couldn’t quite place it. Until one day when I realized the smell was that of sweaty balls. Yes. You read correctly. The toilet had one of those plasticky toilet seats and we had intended to change it but hadn’t done it yet. And THAT was where the smelly, sweaty balls smell was coming from.The guy we bought the house from, Ted, was a real cocksmacking shithead bastard old-ass motherfucker. As you may have deduced, I didn’t care for him very much. This man, whom I loathed and who made me insanely angry SO many times while trying to buy this stupid house, had managed to stick it to us one last time with his nasty balls.

But what I really wanted to know is HOW the smell was on the toilet seat. I asked my husband if his balls touch all over the toilet seat, either inside or on it or whatever and he looked at me like WTF? Of course not.

But clearly Ted of the smelly balls was doing SOMETHING to have left his stink all over the toilet seat. What I also want to know is how his kindly wife Regina put up with it. Didn’t SHE notice the stinky sweaty balls smell? Clearly, for his ball smell to have permeated the plastic toilet seat, it had to have been BAD.

If your man had balls that smelled that bad, wouldn’t you be concerned? At the very least, wouldn’t you have bleached the holy hell out of your cheap piece-of-shit plastic toilet seat every day? If it was me, I would have bleached Ted’s balls every day, too. Suffice it to say, we went and got a new toilet seat the instant we realized the source of THE SMELL.

Incidentally, after a few months of living in the new house, a check arrived for Ted from the IRS, in an amount very close to the amount of money he had screwed us out of (did I mention that he royally shafted us, in addition to subjecting us to THE SMELL?). It was some kind of refund for overpayment. Instead of forwarding it to him, we ripped it up into tiny pieces and ceremoniously flushed it down the now infamous master bathroom toilet.

Yes. Bad karma. I know. It was worth it. My only true regret is that he probably never even knew about it.

˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚
This has been an encore presentation from the archives as I’m still on vacation. I hope you enjoyed it. I’ve been reading blogs but on a 24000 bps modem connection, it’s sooo slow so I’m not able to comment or else I’d be on the computer forever and that would be a shame because the weather has been absolutely beautiful!

Miss you all! Wish you were here :)

Growing Up: The Magical Mystery Tour

What do you remember about learning, or NOT learning the facts of life? You know — puberty, periods, sex and the like. Do you recall what you thought before you really knew what the deal was? And guys? What about you?

I ask because last night I read this really interesting post by Tori about her daughter knowing the in’s and outs of having a period and it brought back all kinds of memories of growing up female.

As I noted in Tori’s comments, my first experience with the curse, the monthly bill or as some call it, our friend, was seeing my much, much older sister changing her maxi pad in the bathroom when I was about 4. I was simultaneously mystified and horrified. She shooed me out of there but later I went back into the bathroom, plucked her pad out of the trash, unwrapped it and just looked at it. If I’d known the expression back then, you can bet I would have been saying “WTF????”

Later, at a large holiday gathering I told everyone at the table about my discovery and even used my grandfather’s hankie as a prop to demonstrate how my sister put on a maxi pad.

Yeah. She’s still a little pissed about that.

I wouldn’t have any more period shenanigans for quite some time after that and though I recall whispers and mentions of “the period” as I got older. it wasn’t until I read Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret by my beloved Judy Blume, when I was about 9 or 10 that I started to form a vague idea of what it was all about. I became very interested in the gear and would often peek inside people’s cabinets to see if they had any tampons or pads. My mom had the pads so those were no big deal but the tampons intrigued me. You must understand that I still was not clear on the bleeding part or where it actually came from so I was very curious as to where this big old Q-tip was supposed to go.

Rather fortuitously, around that same time, my mom got me a book that was supposed to take care of everything and edumacate me on the mysterious details of womanhood. But it really didn’t help all that much. I had all the information…you know, like you bleed every 28 days to shed the uterine lining unless you’re pregnant yada yada yada but the diagrams were so scientific; so encyclopedic. It was hard to relate to or even imagine that I had all that weird stuff inside me.

And sex? Oh yeah, I definitely wanted the scoop on sex. Forget it. No mention of the deed whatsoever. The book was strictly hoo-has and other lady parts. All I knew about sex or “baby-making” was what I learned from an after- school special, which was also rather vague and as I recall, kind of cartoony. But it wouldn’t be long before information and MIS-information trickled down from older girls.

As I recall, the first real scoop I ever heard about anything sexual was from my friend’s sister. She had befriended Lola, a French exchange student that we were in total awe of and Lola had informed her that when you “suck a boy’s penis” your lips get salty. I was all “Ewwww! Why the hell would anyone want to do THAT???” And really…salty?? Not quite how I’d describe it but I suppose it’s in the ball park of accurate. At the time, though, I imagined my lips crusted with salt crystals like a pretzel…lol

And I’ll never forget my cursory introduction to concept of homosexuality. Again, the same older sister as before was outside with my friend and I and in the distance, a girl name Jo rode past on the boulevard. Big sister and Jo exchanged some snarky words and then my friend’s sister shouted out what sounded like “You’re a lead!”

As usual, I was clueless.

“Lead?” I asked, “Why is she calling her a lead?”

And my friend broke into gales of laughter. “Not LEAD!!! LEZ!!!”

Me: Lez?
Friend: Yeah, lez.
Me: What’s a lez?
Friend: A girl that likes girls
Me: So?
Friend: A girl that likes girls instead of boys
Me: Ohhhhh.

I tried to play it off but I was SO confused.

In the next few years, I would learn the more accurate facts about sex but never from a parent. My mom passed away before I ever even got my period (at age 14 I was a late bloomer) and my stepmom did try to have “the talk” with us but my stepsister and I tormented her with the most ridiculous questions and then laughed hysterically.

I plan on teaching my daughter all that puberty stuff as we go along and definitely, I want her to know everything about her period before age nine because girls develop SO early now. We’ve drunk organic milk since I was pregnant with her and we eat mostly organic meats so she’s being deprived of all those synthetic growth hormones. Add to that the fact that I was the last girl of all my friends to “become a woman” and it’s entirely possible that she, too, will be a late bloomer. Hopefully, if that’s the case, she won’t hate it as much as I did.

As for the big sex talk, I guess that sort of goes along with the period talk but God, nine seems awfully young to be discussing such mature things. I do suspect I’m deluding myself, though, and that if I waited any longer, I run the risk of being laughed at and ridiculed like my poor stepmother was.

She’ll be six in a couple months and nine in only three years. I only have three years (or less) to address all of this.

*deep breath*

God, I dread this growing up shit.

˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚ ˚

On a totally different note, if you’re interested, check out this blog design I finished this weekend. Betty was a dream to work with and thanks to Kristen for the referral!

Don’t Take the Pot

Yup. You heard me. This message is directed to all you kids out there that are sneaking the computer and going through your mom’s blogroll.

Don’t take the pot.

Okay, okay. I was just being funny and imitating my parents there. What I really mean is don’t SMOKE the pot.

Why? Why, you ask?

Well, because you might decide, at the wise old age of 14 or maybe 15, that when your friend calls you on a Saturday and tells you she got a joint from that stoner guy who rides your bus, that it would be a smashing idea to go to the gazebo by the lake and get high.

So you lie to your parents and say you need to get something from the drug store and instead you get on your yellow 3 spd bike (with the dorky baskets on the back that are better suited to towing people than carrying stuff) and you swing by your friend’s house to pick her up. You guys take turns towing each other to the gazebo only to find there are people there feeding ducks.

Puh! Hopeless dork losers that they are, you leave them to their duck-feeding while you and your friend try to think of place where two wickedly cool teenage girls sporting feathered hair and black eyeliner and wearing those little nylon Dolfin shorts (yes, like the kind Richard Simmons and Hooters girls wear) can go burn one without being too terribly conspicuous.

You end up deciding that the little tunnel of bushes behind the Publix Supermarket will afford you the privacy needed to get baked. While puffing away, some stock boys from Publix follow their noses to your hideout and you guys have to share with them. They are kind of cute and you decide this is for the best since you’re already way too stoned. Being a novice pot smoker, you always let this happen. You never quit while you’re ahead. Dumbass.

As the stock boys depart, high as kites, talking about what kind of food they plan on swiping from the store, you and your friend finally exit the bushes, too, and you get on your bike.

Realizing your condition, you wisely decide to walk the bike instead. As you guys get closer to home, it starts to rain and your friend casually announces that she has to leave now to go to her aunt’s house with her mom.

Whoa, whoa, wait a second. Your brain, in it’s compromised state, is about to catch on fire because it’s working extra hard to process this bit of confusing and bad, VERY BAD, information.

“You’re leaving me? Like this? You can’t. I’m all baked and I can NOT go home like this. I need someone to hang with until I can go home.”

But in the blink of bloodshot eye she’s gone and you are alone, in the rain, high.

Hmmmm. What to do. What to do.

And then you have a brainstorm. You will go to the house of the people you babysit for.

Yeah. They’re pretty cool. He’s a cop and keeps weed in a Tupperware in the bathroom cabinet. And they’re swingers. Remember those Polaroids you found? Ewww. Don’t think about that part. Doesn’t matter. They’re nice people. They are. C’mon.

And before you know it, you’re ringing the bell. Mr. Erlich (Officer Erlich) opens the door and you ask if his wife is home. He smiles and kindly welcomes you in while explaining that Karen and the boys are out but will be home soon. He’s just watching a movie and you’re welcome to hang out and wait. Trying your hardest not not let him see how gross and pasty your mouth is (because then he would know for sure that his teenaged babysitter was totally high) you decide to grab a pillow, lay on the floor and watch the movie. This is an awesome plan, you think to yourself as Mr. Erlich brings you an orange soda. Yes, indeedy!

As you open your eyes, you hear a little voice saying “Mommy, Daddy, she’s getting up!” You look up and there they are. The whole Erlich family looking down, smiling widely at you like you just did something hilariously funny.

Oh wait. You did. You fell dead asleep on their floor for 2 hours.

Grinning sheepishly and silently praising Jah that you’re not high any more, you apologize profusely and get the hell out of there.

If memory serves you correctly, the Erlichs never ask you to babysit again. You don’t care, though, because you’re really embarrassed (and they never had any good food to eat anyway.)

But still. You know you did something really dumb and you’re pretty sure the Erlichs knew. How could they not? And you hope to God they don’t ever tell your parents. Your dad & stepmom were not young enough to indulge in the Summer of Love and all that hippie stuff. They called it taking pot, for pete’s sake.

****************************************

Ahhhhh, to have the luxury of being young & stupid…

My parents never did find out about that Saturday afternoon, thankfully. They would have been very disappointed in me. I was the kind of kid that did bad stuff but got good grades and was generally very responsible. The kind of kid that fools all adults…

I smoked pot many more times after that but I finally had to throw in the towel and admit that I was not a good pot taker. I couldn’t drive (well, I could. But only at speeds under 20 mph). I couldn’t go into a store or do anything remotely normal. I could just eat A LOT, read the same line in a book over and over and then fall asleep. I wasn’t much fun.

These days, however, I have hard time sleeping unless I’m dead tired and taking the pot seems like maybe not such a bad idea.

But the eating. The unabated crap-eating…

Arghhhhh…

Better keep the pot away.