Red and Reds

Back in 1976, on live television, Red Foxx made a comment at Jimmy Carter's inaugural gala that made me burst into laughter. He said, "don't worry too much about having a Black president. If The Bomb goes off, we'll all be Black."

I was 13 years old, and at that moment, I felt as if Red and I were the only two sane people in the world. Funny, not much has changed in 32 years.

I have been following the Russian invasion of Georgia this past week. It's good practice for next week - you know, when we invade Iran (wink, wink). Anyway, I was thinking of how clever the Russian technique is: invade the country, stomp all over everyone, then deny it happened. Because we're too preoccupied to know for sure, all we can do is yell at them and hope for the best.

It's exceedingly clever. My kids do it all the time.
Smaller kid: "Mom, she's messing with me!"
Bigger kid: "I am not."
Smaller kid: "You are too!"
Bigger kid: "No, I'm not."
Smaller kid: "You liar!"
Bigger kid: "No, YOU'RE the liar!"

As a Mom, I have to admit that it is painfully obvious that the big kid is picking on the little kid. But Mom is really busy DRIVING A CAR and TRYING NOT TO CRASH it (do you see the metaphor?). Because Mom is preoccupied, she cannot pull over and smack everyone senseless.

As an American, I can’t help but notice the parallels with the news headlines. Here's the political translation:

Georgia: "Dad (President Bush, EU, NATO!), Russia is invading us!"
Russia: "We are not!"
Georgia: "You are too!"
Russia: "No, we're not!"
Georgia: "You are committing genocide!"
Russia: "No, YOU'RE the one committing genocide!"

As in the previous example, it is obvious that the big bear is picking on the little dumpling. But Dad (President Bush, EU Guys, NATO fellas) is really busy running a country and trying not to crash it, plus he already has two big wars on his hands. Because he is so preoccupied, he cannot pull over and SMACK EVERYONE SENSELESS.

I feel bad. The bear is back. Putin is former KGB and he is not playing. You see the leaders of the Ukraine and Poland standing around with the Georgian president. They know they're on their own now, and they'd better behave. The EU and the NATO are not going to pull over and help them.

Then there's Georgia. Whimpering and mumbling. "You guys said I could have a missile defense system. What about NATO? You said I could join NATO, too!"

On top of everything, it is disheartening to see Russian and Georgian soldiers in uniform. I would like to call your attention to how attractive many of them are. I know, I know, I am a barbarian. It's just a shame that they are shooting at each other; they're going to get all sweaty and smelly and bloody and dead. What a waste.

Telogen Effluvium

I've had trouble waking up the past few mornings. Well, more than trouble. Actually, I've turned off the alarm, so it's more like I've had failure to get up the past few mornings. I am not sure, but maybe as I have been messing with the aromatherapy stuff, it has been messing with me.

Did you ever feel like your body was telling you to do something, but you weren't sure what it was telling you to do? I have been having a lot of that lately. Much of the time, I walk around semi-disconnected, in the physical sense. It's as if my head is connected to an apparatus that is moving around and taking care of business, but there's a whole other part of me that is engaged elsewhere, you might say. Sometimes, I have the sensation that my stomach is floating six inches above me. Odd, I know.

These past few days, ever since I started experimenting with the plant medicinals, I have felt connected to the apparatus. It's a strange feeling. Not always familiar. I noticed it right away, and I felt OK with it. Then I started feeling very quiet, like I just wanted to listen and pay attention to everyone. When I went to bed at night, I slept hard. Heavy, like in water. It was difficult to get up. My body feels different, like when I was doing that cleansing fast. I feel a change every time I put plant oil on my body.

For instance, I get migraines three or four times a week. Yesterday, when I put geranium oil and juniper berry on the back of my neck, they made an oncoming headache go away.

The past two months I have missed my period. I don't know why, unless it is the stress I have had with the kids and the ex. I've also noticed some hair loss. It's called telogen effluvium - stress-related hair loss. I've had it twice before in my life, once when I lived in South Carolina, and another time when my ex-husband was being especially mean to me. This is the third time. I noticed it first in my hairbrush, that I had to clean it more than usual. Then I started seeing stray hairs everywhere – on my clothes, in the sink, on the bathroom counter top. I have long hair, so when it falls on my shoulders or clothes, it ends up tickling me or getting in my face or something annoying like that. Finally, I found myself having to clean a whole bunch of it out of the bathtub after a shower. It's unnerving, but eventually it stops. Or you go bald. One or the other.

Whatever.

I haven't found the essential oil for that one yet.

Play Therapy

I'm in a cycle where I'm trying to take care. Just be purposeful, have direction, for a change. Like in French - faire attention. I was hoping the other day that this was the end of a year of hard changes for me and my kids; this could be the beginning of an easier life. I guess you never know that, though. You just take it a day at a time.

In the past year, the kids had their dad move out, a crazy nanny move in, a crazy nanny move out, and the dog move back to South Carolina. We also sold our house and moved into a two-bedroom apartment with Phyllis, my room mate. This week they start school, my big girl in 4th grade and my little one in kindergarten. My older daughter has been in four schools since we moved to this town, and she is not happy about the changes. She's shy and self-conscious. By contrast, the little one makes friends with people even if there's a complete language barrier – the Mexican neighbors, for example.

Every once in a while, Missy will ask, "why did we have to sell the green house?" I tell her it's because it was too expensive for just the three of us. Emily sometimes asks, "did you like Greta (the dog)?" When I answer yes, that I loved her, she asks accusingly, "then why did you give her away?" Sometimes one or both of them will just start crying – they want to go home. To their old home. To their old rooms. In the green house.

The play therapy is coming along. I am grateful for that. The play therapist gives me a ton of homework to do – reading, charts, exercises. All in all, she says I am very teachable. And I am. I don't want to screw this up.

Emily has wanted to make perfume for a while now, so I went to the health food store to buy plant oils. I picked out a few, and they cost me the whole week's food budget. Plus, I had to buy vodka to make the perfume. Anyway, the lady at the health food store started talking to me about the plant and flower oils – I thought they were just smelly stuff, but it turns out they have medicinal properties, too. So I got a few books from the library. The past few nights we've all gone to bed with lavender on our pillows. I read in the book that it not only helps you sleep, but it can help you when there's been a wound to your soul. I thought, "this is what we've all had – a wound to our souls." My soul, Emily's little girl soul, Missy's baby 5 year old soul. We all need medicine.

We did well going to bed the past few nights. A month ago it was an anger fest, with mom swearing and the kids jumping on the beds. Calm is better. Lavender is better. Play therapy is helping.

Heavy Petting

Preston. I’ve written about him before on this blog. I kind of liked him, but for the wrong reasons. He was funny – but not in a good way. Every time I went out with him, I came home wondering if I'd been on a date. I'd have to sit down on the couch and reason it out.

Evidence for:

• picked me up
• told me I looked great
• opened doors, pulled out my chair
• paid for everything
• walked me to the door

Sounds like a date, right? I have plenty of guy friends, but they draw the line at pulling out my chair and paying for everything. Once in a while they pay for dinner, but only because I'm a single mom. And dates with Preston were expensive – dinner, wine, theatre, cabs. The works.

So it seemed like a date. But every time he dropped me off, I had a consistent, nagging "what the hell was that?" feeling.

Evidence against:

• never came near me. I swear.
• talked on his cell phone constantly while in the car and in restaurants.
• took me to crowded and noisy places. It was impossible to talk or ask questions, such as “is this a date?”.

I started thinking Preston was gay.

Evidence for:

• overly attached to feline friends (see below).
• referred to people he used to date as "this person I was seeing."
• never touched me. I swear.
• recoiled from holding hands like he was Superman and I was Kryptonite.
• liked show tunes.

Evidence against:

• none.

He started talking to me about the cat. She was sick and it seemed serious. He called a lot, sometimes late at night. I think he even sobbed a few times about the cat. He was making me nervous. Now I felt trapped.

I resolved to wait until after cat died to put some distance between us. Once I got the cat funeral pictures, I had to wait even longer - I didn't want him to think I was breaking up with him because he sent me weird dead cat pictures. Even though I was. I totally was. And also the fact that he was semi-gay.

When I told him that the relationship wasn't working for me, he was miffed. He brought up the possibility of a committed friendship. Whatever that is. We exchanged a few emails, but he moved on.


Preston and Sophie


The plot and the burial

Sophie, in happier days



R.I.P.

Last Night

Last night at a local church there was a speaker on sex trafficking and helping women in prostitution and I wanted to attend. I couldn't get a babysitter and I took the kids. Emily complained about going, but Missy didn't. I took them to a café beforehand. Emily misbehaved the whole time, jumping around, provoking Missy, talking smart to me. The last straw was when she went in my purse. I have told her several times that she is not allowed to open my purse. I grabbed her arm and squeezed it, but she pulled away and ended up getting scratched by my fingernails.

The look on her face was like that of a toddler - you know, when they open their mouths to scream and nothing comes out at first. Then total, total hysteria. I hate you, I want Tara's mother to be my mother. I will never speak to you again. I tried to tell her she needs to stay out of my purse, that I didn’t mean to hurt her, that she made me angry.

She kept mouthing off at me, I hate you, you're a bad mother. We left the restaurant in a hurry. We got in the car and she called me a dummy. She kept sticking her tongue out at me and making faces. I ignored her and drove to the church.

We sat down and watched the presentation. We only stayed for about 20 minutes, but I wanted the information because I've always wanted to work with prostitutes. Emily was fascinated. The youngest girls they have rescued are 12 years old. She understood a lot of it, how there are people who hurt little girls, who take them from their parents and hurt them. She asked me some questions. All in all the kids were fidgety, but I got the information I wanted and we left.

We got out in the parking lot. Without prompting, she told me she was sorry and that she loved me. The rest of the night was fine. This morning she woke up and was fine. Just as we were about to leave the house, some sort of Emily switch flipped and she started in on Missy. Missy freaked out. I intervened, saying (therapy talk) "I understand you are angry, but don't call Missy names." She was calling her a retard. Missy ran all the way down the walk and stood by the car. Then Emily started on me. She does this thing with banging stuff. She has a metal bracelet which she flings around on her wrist. It makes a snapping noise. She does it to annoy me, but I usually ignore it for the first 1000 times. Well, this time it hit her in the eye and she grabbed her eye and started to cry. I was driving and I said Oh my God, are you ok? She was ok, but I ended up taking the bracelet away. She flipped out, screaming "give it back." I said, "I have to take it, it’s not safe for you to have it now." Then it was I hate you, I want Tara's mother, I like Daddy better, I never want to see you again. She tried to grab it a few times, but I just said, "don't try it." She kicked the car and stomped and punched the dashboard. I just let her. She did not try to hit me.

She was calm by the time we got to Jennifer's, but she had upset Missy a great deal, first with the picking on her, then with the explosion. Missy started saying, "I love you, Mom." She does that to try to make up for Emily yelling at me. I just say, "I love you, too, and I love Emily, too."

Emily is completely out of control. I was thinking as I left Jennifer's that I am glad I am handling this now with therapy. She is going to be the type of teenager who hits me. She hits me now sometimes, and it breaks my heart to hit her back. But I can just picture her with the car keys, just like with the bracelet, "give it back, give it back." By that time, she won't be afraid of me, either.

I really hate my life. My daughter is 9 years old. I hate my life.

Fun with Email

I was thinking of doing a series of blog entries on my love life. I mean my social love life. You know, eros (emphasis on the “err” not on the “o”). Not agape or philos.

I had thought about doing it a few months ago when I was getting all sorts of weird email from Preston, my gay boyfriend. Pictures of the cat’s funeral and all that. It was just too much, and I felt torn between the need to share the disturbia and my overwhelming compulsion to be nice. Nice won out. But that was in April.

This month I’ve been feeling a little cranky and I thought I’d share some of the nuttier social experiences I’ve had. One thing about writers that you may not know: we are sneaky. That is to say that for the writer, everything and everyone is fair game. For instance, I forward asinine emails. I also keep unusual voice mail, especially if there is any kind of singing or humming involved. That note you passed me in 10th grade algebra? It’s in the back of my sock drawer, right next to a birthday card from my Auntie Gail. I consider them sort of deposits in a creative inspiration bank. When I have nothing to write about, I just yank out a bit of weirdness from my past. Or yours.

So be forewarned, friends, family, coworkers, neighbors, casual acquaintances, captivating strangers, members of the faceless crowd: I am a writer and I’m taking notes. Every twist of the tongue, every nuanced look, every drunken rant is grist for the mill - for my blog, for my novel, for my next volume of poetry.

And, of course, I forward email.

Here is an interesting one from a guy I met at through a mutual acquaintance. He told me he was a budding writer, and that his favorite author was John Grisham. He didn’t have a second favorite author, as I recall. Anyway, I think we got into a discussion about why poetry doesn’t have to rhyme, something wicked deep, and although the reason escapes me now, I gave him my email address. About a month later, I received this literary gem:

Dearest,

You can tell that you have a core of molten lava, burning beneath your surface. How can mere skin and bones contain such a smoldering, passionate soul? I've been looking for that super-heated heart in another. When joined with my own, our auras will be seen from space.

Can you meet me tonight at Margarita's on the Boulevard for two-for-one tacos? Say after work?

My work number is 555-555-5555. My home number is 555-555-555.

David

Naturally, this was too awesome to be true. I immediately forwarded my treasure to Marc. His reply came rather quickly.

Hey,

I did a reverse search on his number. Got his name and address. Then called Margarita's and placed an order for 3 dozen tacos. They deliver. I hope he's home. And likes spice.

Marc

Next entry: Cat Funeral