disclaimer or something

A mummy-hand holding, (former) biker gang affiliating, hippie influenced semi crunchy granola mom's ramblings and reminisings on an off-kilter life

Monday, March 2, 2015

microstory - succubus

The rum's all gone
Conversation's over
I told you no
How you hurt
How you suck the life out from me
You used caveats and excuses
And distorted it all
Twisted my mind
The bottle's dry
I yearn to heal you

Saturday, February 28, 2015

Surprise, I brought you flowers

The eighty-degree February sun glistened on the wet grass as we slowly drove around the cemetary and approached the masoleum. That's when i realized she was in there. Somehow, walking atop the dead is fine but a whole building full of them is nightmarish to me. I could not turn around now.

"Isn't this a bit morbid honey? Sure you want to do this? It is kinda....dark...all these ancient graves, with the kids, on a sunny day...."my husband's voice trailed off as me saw me stifle a grimace at the sight of the masoleum. I slowly opened the car door and slowly mumbled, "ok then I will be right back gimme the camera."

"What? You? Go in alone? By yourself?!?! The kids and I are coming. You can'tvgo in alone, you morose girl you" exclaimed my husband. So we all slowly ascended the stairs and walked into a silent, hot and stuffy, marble and brass sarcophagus. It's a sarcophagus, right? A giant stone tomb. Names of people long gone, some forgotten, were written on plaques in every direction. My children, young and innocent, ran around and enjoyed their voices echoing off the walls, reverberating and brwaking the austere mood of the place. I squinted and scanned the walls and couldn't find her. Little brass vases held dust and cobweb covered fake plastic flowers on some plaques, a place time had forgotten. About to give up, I found her tucked in a corner. The light filtered in the windows, light and shadow playing, my son chasing the reflections. "This is kinda weird uh....I will take the kids, do your thing but hurry" my husband whispered, as he rokunded the corner and made his way down the hall.

How do you do this? Why must so much of my life be so unscripted? There's no "situation x y z for dummies" book on most topics I encounter in life.

"Hi, Selma. You are my morsmormormor, my great great grandma. You were born in Sweden. Your daughter, Selma, had a baby. No one knew. She is my grandma. so I am  your relative too. Hello. Sorry for the surprise. Uhh....bye." And with that, I turned to leave, hoping I didn't upset her. I mean, what if she never even knew this huge family secret? Or what if she spent her life hiding it and here I come all, hey, your daughter did some naughty things and the secret's out, here I am! Or what if she knew and had always wondered? Man. I should have brought a photo of her grand-daughter. Or should I....

My thoughts were interrupted, and I stopped in my tracks (so much for a hasty escape) when my husband asked, "smell that?" I sniffed and smelled a floral scent, Easter Lilies to be exact. "Yeah, so? It's a cemetary. People bring flowers" I retorted. "Yeah, but do you see any flowers? Any real flowers? And did you smell them before? " I nodded no and looked back towards Selma's corner, and grabbed my son's hand. "Let's go home" I proclaimed, leaving Selma and friends behind. Who knows. Perhaps she (or someone else) tried to make a visit, it is often said certain strong scents can be a sign of the supernatural.
<a href="http://yeahwrite.me/moonshine/"><img src="http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2014/02/moonshine.png"></a>

Friday, February 6, 2015

laughing at your past

I do not mention it much but almost 15 years ago, I dated an asshole. He had a charming side, and then, a bipolar alcoholic emotionally abusive side. I got trapped in his web for two years, hopelessly in love and yet in misery and fear. Thank God (and my husband) for saving me. Except, see, my past haunts my dreams...but luckily it is the past and it stays in my dreams. Until...today. I decided to check my linkedin account and wow six people looked at my profile?!?! Future employers maybe? (Four years of under employment and under employment mean I get giddy in the hopes I will be "discovered" online). I then saw a familiar name. Shit. There is a reason (him) that my "name" on social media is not my own, from his prior virtual stalkings of me and his freaky threats . I suddenly thought, I have to block him. So to block people, you have to visit their profile. Except I could not find the right button to click to block him. Fuck. Now it looks like I stalked him back because he will log in and be all, "ooh she looked at my profile". And then begets my fear I wilk run into him in public or he will find where I live, as he is the type to be that kind of crazy. So then I decide screw it. I need to know something. I put up with his emotional prison

Friday, January 30, 2015

there are no coincidences...and...fyi I am not a creepy stalker.

My half brother whom I have never met (we are FB friends) is expecting a baby! Well his girlfriend is but same difference right? So I had to google her name, make sure she is a good person for my brother and neice/nephew. All I could find was an address. But holy moly omfg can it be? THERE ARE NO COINCIDENCES. She lives or lived....wait let me back up. In the early 90's my brother and his aunt, uncle, cousins on my side whom he hasnt a clue about lived a half mile away from him. They probably saw one another often and never knew. So fast forward to now. His girlfriend lived or lives in the SAME HOUSE as his & my aunt, uncle, cousins lived in. THE SAME EXACT HOUSE. I am floored.

Wednesday, January 14, 2015

Fear and Loathing in las escuelas

The scent of multipurpose cleaner and soggy canned corn wafted through the halls, riding the chilly draft from the locked metal doors. Tiny windows, security protocols, screams echoing down empty halls made me feel like a prisoner; tiny paper snowflakes bedazzled in glitter meant I was instead inside an elementary school.

I felt deja vu upon deja vu, a multilayered memory carried by that corn and cleaner stench, that filled me with fear and self-loathing. An elementary school should not cause such anxiety; perhaps the fact that my four-year-old was locked away in a small florescent-lit room with a district psychologist and some number two pencils added to my anxiety.

I was flooded with memories of my dozen-plus experiences teaching in a handful of schools. I somehow always fell prey to the hoardes of students, my classroom went wild and my career was at stake. I rarely stayed at a school site for more than a year, a prominent mentor and role model in the lives of thirty to two hundred students one day, gone the next. Every day when I walked in the school doors, that corn and cleaner stench mocked me as I told myself, today would be a better day. I would take control of my class. And every day, that corn and cleaner scent clung to my heels as I locked the classroom door, full of self loathing at my failure as a teacher. But I kept coming back; a love of learning and teaching and helping others, a strange instinctual need to help children find wonder drove me back each time. Every year, a different school, with the same self loathing and fear.

So as I paced the halls, waiting for my son to finish an evaluation, I did my best to keep my chin up, while having an epiphany. Somehow, my emotions take me hostage and I feel like a prisoner in the school system. I feel bullied, alone, a failure. Exactly what I hope my son never ever experiences. 

I pray that when he opens the school doors, the scent of corn and cleaner whispers to him, "explore....wonder...succeed...smile....". And that he whispers back, "I will."

Friday, January 2, 2015

rotten fish and hairy legs

Please tell me you have had vacations like this! Yeah, I should have known the trip was doomed when my few friends all canceled; I decided to make the best of it and stick to something for once and what a mistake.

Eighth grade is a time of hormonal roller coaster drama, and being a dorky, shy, flaf
t-chested prepubescent nerd did not make it any easier. In fact, I truly forget most of middle school, a huge blamk in my life for (probably) good reason. Thank god social media did not exist back then. But anyways, I was set to go on an epic school field trip and it sounded pretty damned cool, minus the lack of friends. Camping...for a week! What tomboy wouldn't love that? Panning for gold? Visiting historical sites? Omg a nerd dream!

So when I got assigned to my car in the caravan with three prissy rich girls totally out of my social circle and destined to loathe me, I sucked it up. I, being the wishy-washy type to get walked all over, gladly accepted the middle seat with a hump where my legs would go. Sure, riding for 8 hours straight on a rock hard seat with my knees on my cheeks? Sign me up!

It got worse. My prissy companions didnt have room for my luggage, so it went on the teacher's bus with all the camping gear. And...and...and...the girls in the car wanted to listen to the same mix tape all the way there. Not some two-sided 90 minute thing, nuh uh, it had two songs. Two. "Lady in Red" and some Celine Dion song I luckily erased from memory. Oh. And they sang along. God help me.

So we get to the campsite and I misleadingly get all excited, yay nature!

And my camp mom/chauffeur decided camp food is not good enough for her little snowflake and friends. Since I am the black sheep third wheel, she decides "when in Rome.." and since I am not allowed to leave the supervision of my camp mom, I, too, get special meals. Except, she doesnt foot the bill. My $50 of spending cash gets a good run at Carl's Jr a few miles away.

We went to some cave where some kids went spelunking (my funds limited due to a need to eat, I passed up spelunking). One of the prissy girls was $20 short of some spelunking, tshirt, souvenir for her dying grandpa combo and being the softy I am, I forked over $20 for her pleasure, and thus nearly starved off two sandwishes, hold the fries and drink per day because all the fun activity shit has emtrance fees.

On a rathed hot day, everyone stripped down to their bathing suits to swim in the nearby lake. Unable to do more than doggy paddle, I skipped that embarassment (omg look she swims like a dog woof woof she looks like a dog too huh huh huh), I shyly dipped my toes in the water only to look down in horror. Not only was there a rotten maggot infested dead fish inches from my foot, but my legs weren't shaved and I forgot my razor. I was like Sasquatch if he were 80 lbs and as white-pale as an albino. Oh the horror. And i thought, omg everyone will totally notice and I shit you not, they did notice! A gaggle of mocking teens and nowhere to run and hide.

But I kind of redeemed myself. I hated my math teacher who made me bawl my eyws out with her cruel ways back when she was my 4th grade teacher. I picked up a different, maggot-free but damned stench bloated fish and placed it in my math teacher's rv. Yes. It was glorious. Except it wasn't. My English teacher caught me and while I could tell he too wanted to put stinky fish in her rv, it is not exactly what teachers do or let their students do so we settled on putting it near the rv.

And then one night, it rained. And rained some more. Like Biblical level rain, where the tents literally began to wash away in the deluge. We all frantically  packed in the dark and wet and headed to the mountains, hoping to find a cabin in the now-blizzard. We found one cabin, and I recall us packing like sardines into beds and ontp the floor in illegal masses just to find shelter.

We left for home the next morning, and I could not wait to get home. Exceptmmy camp mom and her prissies felt they knew a shortcut through the desert to get home, but it ended up a long-cut. I frantically attempted a phone call from the (now archaic) corded brick "car phone", my psycho dad would have to wait at the school a few extra hours till I arrived.

I thought we took some clever shortcut to the school when we pulled into the camp mom' s driveway, miles from school. Everyone casually unloaded and strolledinsode and I sat in their kitchen, doe-eyed. I was supposed to be at school, meeting my already panicked crazy dad. I could not exactly call him since we weren't wealthy and thus lacked a snazy brick phone. I couldn't call the school, it was up on a Sunday. The prissies did not "get" that my dad was probably attracting the attention of the police by now in his panic. They took their sweet ass time as I pleaded to be returned to school. "Just call him...he does not have a car phone? He did not know to pick you up here? Cant you just sleep on our couch and you can ride the bus to school in the morning?" I finally reminded them my suitcase was on the school bus and I needed clean underwear, so they drove me to school.

I got there and the huge school parking lot contained...my dad and his truck. Nothing else, as in, my suitcase and the school bus were missing. I would have to wait till school opened in the morning to get most of my clothes and all my schoolbooks.

The next morning, I had to get in trouble for not having my schoolbooks and fpr barely being able to see the board (since my contacts were in my suitcase). I got a message 6th period that my mom was going to pick me up instead of riding the bus. My English teacher suggested I wait in his room. My mom came in to find me and... my teacher mumbled something to her. They disappeared, came back, and presentd me with a hunk of something slimy and black.

My suitcase.

Bent in half and covered in lotion and contact fluid.

The bus had left my suitcase in some dark recess of the parking lot, only to be found by a schoolbus in the morning, and ran over.  My schoolbooks were damaged beypnd repair, my clothes torn and all lotion-y with road grime smooshed in.

It was the worst field trip/vacation ever.

Friday, November 7, 2014

the living puzzle

My child is a living puzzle. His speech and language pathologist (slp) says he is like swiss cheese, with lots of holes. This week made it very apparent.

He can barely compose a sentence, comprehend someone, or survive an hour without a meltdown tantrum. And yet, he can write most of his name and draw people, a skill a year ahead of his age. He even labeled his drawing, with specific letters of people in the family. Wow kid, you blow me away.

But then.....he had a speech and language asssessment that nearly left me in tears. He could not follow the simple directions. He could not answer "what is your name". Sure, when asked, "say one" he counted to twenty (another super skill set of his) but then when she said, "say dog" he mimicked, "say dog". She pointed at another picture, "boy" and he stared blankly. She had never had a child his age who needed her to say "say", every single time. He lacks most verbs. He cannot finish a sentence (such as, the teacher shows a boy putting the ball under the table and says, "the boy" , he is to say "puts ball under a table" or something like that. He just stared. She repeated "the boy" and he would mimic her, or point to something unrelated, "like this one.") Sure, he can make the correct sounds; in fact, he is a bit ahead with his flawless Js, Shs and Chs sounds. But he cannot quite.....have a simple conversation. Sure his speech has grown leaps and bounds (he never would mimic before, and just yesterday he learned grocery, take, lettuce) but yet he seems leaps and bounds behind.
My snuń£gle-buddy children

Add in this....je ne sais quois of his and man. He is a puzzle. He tells anyone who is crying, "it's ok" and brings them toys, and yet he pinches and hits everyone.  He is not fully potty trained, but can remember certain things as if he has a photographic memory. He has epic meltdowns and yet he seems to be the popular kid.

Sometimes, I look at my one year old and think, oh no....someday soon, you will surpass your big brother...how will I deal with that?

This new SLP only treats kids with speech/language issues, nothing else. She even sees that there is a je ne sais quois with him and that that will likely mean he cannot get speech therapy (drats) but she is willing to bend the rules and give him a try.

Meanwhile, my school district is in violation, over 50 students are awaiting special ed assessments (I am number 51!). It has been 2 years since I noticed my son was a bit different and all I have gotten is a speech assessment, NOTHING ELSE. And not for lack of trying. But I am determined to get him the help he legally needs.

I fear him growing up, being one of the "slow kids", feeling bad about himself. This fear makes me like a deer in headlights. But I know no matter what, I will figjt to the death to get him help (even if it seems like he might be in high school before he gets any help) and that no matter what, he is my special little puzzle guy. Somehow it will all work out, even if it seems I am stumbling backwards, cursing everyone to get their shit together and give a damn. This mama bear is about to roar and protect her baby cub!

A labeled drawing of the family