girl brains

what we say when we get his voicemail:

hey sweetie, it's me, just thought i'd call and say hey cause things were a little funky when you left, so yeah, i'll be up for a while if you want to call me back, but no biggie... i love you very much and i'll see you soon. hope you're having fun. k bye, love you.

what we're thinking:

dude, really? we were griping at each other all weekend and now you're working late and you're too busy playing with your dumb friends and your dumb instruments to answer the phone. i was GONNA go to bed but now i'm cranky and don't feel like sleeping so i'ma stay up and call my sister and tell her what a wiener you are, mister i-don't-answer-the-phone-when-my-awesome-girlfriend-calls.

what we mean:

i hate that we were pissy with each other and i just wanted to make sure, before i went to bed, that you knew how much i love you. it sucks when you work late and i can't kick you out of bed with my booty. blah. hurry up and get home, i miss you.

what we'll say if you call back:

hey, no, i was up, just talking to my sister... you know, kids and stuff... recipes... yup, everything's cool, have fun and take your time, i'll see you whenever, no hurry. k love you too, bye sweetie.

what that means:

i wish i was two years old because i miss you and i'd rather have a big old stompy fit than be all cool-girlfriend-ish, but whatever. you called back, so i'll be sweet when you get home.

what we'll say if you don't call back:

nothing.

what that means:

you're screwed, dude.

i'm the worst mom ever.

thing one: do you want to play dungeons and dragons with me and mike, mom?

me: um, no thank you.

thing one: why, don't you like it? did you play it when you were my age?

me: no sweetie, when i was your age i went out with boys who beat up guys who played dungeons and dragons.

...cranky mom goes to play dungeons and dragons now.

on definitions, and the practical application thereof

optimist (n):
1. one who usually expects a favorable outcome.
2. a believer in philosophical optimism.

pessimist (n):
1. a person who habitually sees or anticipates the worst or is disposed to be gloomy.
2. an adherent of the doctrine of pessimism.

realist (n):
1. a person who tends to view or represent things as they really are.
2. an artist or a writer whose work is characterized by realism.
3. an adherent of realism.

the first two are foolish. expecting a positive or negative outcome in any situation comprised of variables rather than constants is ridiculous.

if i take one hundred dollars to the electric company to pay my one hundred dollar electric bill, i can expect a positive outcome. this is not optimism. this is realism.

if i take fifty dollars to the electric company to pay my one hundred dollar electric bill, i can expect a negative outcome. this is not pessimism. this is realism.

both of the above are based on constant factors.

it's reasonable to expect a certain outcome based on things you know. it's unreasonable to expect a certain outcome based on things you don't know.

i quit believing in candyland fairy tales about the time i was old enough to read the original grimm's. there are happy endings. there are beautiful stories and amazing lives and good golly, mickey mouse, dreams really do come true. but to expect that, to live based on the assumption that things will always work out, is absolutely ridiculous. and to assume that someone assumes the worst because he doesn't automatically assume the best is equally ridiculous.

why is the concept of realism so hard to understand? when i walk out the door, i don't know that i'll be coming back. there are meteors, track-jumping freight trains, escaped circus elephants... drunk drivers, cancer, suicidal tendencies.

i don't know that things will be ok. i have every reason to believe that in general, things tend to NOT be ok. but i still live every single second for what it is, right now. i want to believe that things will be ok, and when they are, they are. anticipating the potential negative variables doesn't make me a pessimist, and it doesn't mean that i want the worst to happen or that i'm going to make it happen. you can decide to have a good day or to have a bad day, and much of the time, that decision can in fact shape your day. but if you decide to have a good day and then you find out your best friend has cancer or your grandmother died or your grandpa is seriously injured and sick, there is no fucking amount of positive goddamn thinking that is going to change that shit.

it's fucking realism, ok?

my reality right now is this: i have the most amazing, bright, happy, precious children in the world. i am more in love than i ever thought my jaded old head would let me be with the most brilliant, creative man i've ever known. if i believed in such garbage i'd call us soulmates, but i don't. i have a wonderfully supportive family of relatives and friends, a cozy little shack in hicksville, a huge fucking talent that i've wasted thus far and a job that i despise. i am willing to work my ass off to keep those things, except for the job-i'm working to be able to be done with that. i'm willing to work to make sure that my kids and my love and my life reach their full potential, to get us out of this shithole town we're in, to support my partner in doing what he loves and being successful at it. but the reality also is that things change-that when you've been bipolar for 20 years and have stared at that big metaphorical black hole, nothing is certain. you cannot anticipate any outcome, because you never know. all you can do is get through each day and reach as far as you can for the next and hope like hell that there's something to grab on to when you get there.

it doesn't mean you don't love as much as you should, or that you don't want as much as you should, or that you don't care as much as you should. it means that life has proven to you that anticipation is pointless, and you can only live with what you know. it means you have to live in reality, and it's not always fun, but it is what it is.

future shock

you know how they say your life flashes before your eyes when you're about to die? i'm not about to die just yet (i don't think, anyway) and it wasn't my life up to here that i saw but my life from here on out-just for a second; i must have dozed off and dreamed it, just a flash of what it's going to be. not a prophecy, i'm not foolish enough for that, but a glimpse of how things will be if we keep going like we are.

i think i liked what i saw.

i think things might be ok.

i have to make it happen, though... we have to make it happen. can we work/love/play/love/think/work/love our way through to where we want to be? i think so... i'm sure as hell going to try.

i'm committed to this dream of mine, of ours... not just the big alpaca farm and the bestseller lists and platinum records, but the real one, the tours and the book signings and the house in the country with a few farm animals roaming around, happy kids and all the rest. we can do that, i think. i'm pretty sure we can.

fuck. do i actually believe in something? i must be delirious. i need to go to bed.

not quite superfly.

i may have brought to your attention once that beau has an extreme aversion to insects, especially flies. i was aware of this early on, thanks to a conversation we had regarding daddy longlegs (the bane of my existence) and camel crickets (the then-bane of his, and which terrified me into attempting to pee standing up lest they crawl out of the toilet and attack my ass). i was not, however, aware that it would cause the neighbors to potentially see me as a battered woman, thanks to the fact that every time a fly buzzes past his ear he smacks at it-usually hitting the bed or a wall in the process-and yells something like, "DIE, MOTHERFUCKER!" that was a surprise. yay, me.

i may have also brought to your attention that baby girl is a bit of an oddball and has a thing for flyswatters. her last two birthdays, guess what was at the top of her wish list. yup. this year's model, she says, was preferable to the prior gift, which despite being beautifully embellished with a giant plastic daisy, was deemed "too flimsy to kill 'em good."

i may also have brought to your attention that we live in a gazillion-year-old house with cracks and gaps and humidity and little people that leave bits of food around occasionally which leads to OMIGOD FLIES MUST DIE.

the only reasonable thing to do, of course, was to order the SUPER KILLER-an electrified flyswatter. it looks like a tennis racket, only when you whack a poor little unsuspecting insect with it, it screams KZZZZZZZAP! and there are sparks and sizzles and little puffs of smoke and holy baby jesus it's the death penalty for flies.

needless to say, beau and baby girl have a ball with this thing. baby girl carries it around the house trying to convince the flies to come to her: "heeeeere, little flies... let me zaaaaaap youuuuu... it won't hurt, i promise... hehehehehe..."

beau has been spotted doing ninja moves in the kitchen with the thing. i came home one day to find him and his friend stalking flies, sneaking up on them as if the insects were armed with night vision and echolocation devices. think the karate kid, only armed with a bug-zapping tennis racket rather than a bottle of car wax and being led by a bespectacled musician in plaid shorts rather than a creepy little japanese guy. the enemy, of course, is not the big badass high school jock, but a six-legged creature who only wants to eat poo and vomit on your nose.

i used the thing once. i successfully killed a fly, and immediately dropped the weapon, threw my arms around beau and sobbed, "omigaaaaaawd i KILLED something, i killed a poor little FLY and he didn't even DO anything."

[yes, i am the same person who regularly remarks on the unfairness of not being allowed to hit people in the face with a shovel. that's different.]

but then, something changed. alone in the house tonight while baby girl slept and i contemplated watching another episode of my so-called life, i wandered through the kitchen. a fly zipped by my face. another flew by, taunting my ear. my eye fell on the super killer, lying on the washer, waiting for me... just waiting.

i took the bait. i flipped the switch, depressed the safety, and waited. soon enough, the flies started to emerge. one landed on the dishtowel hung on the stove. i swung and missed-i was never an athlete. fearless, he landed in the same spot again and this time i was dead-on. KZZZZZZZZZZZZZAP!

oh god, i was sick and thrilled at the same time. is this what it feels like to have illicit sex? i wouldn't know. it must be similar.

i did it again. and again. and again, and before long i caught a glimpse of myself in the window. i was wild-eyed with the power of taking lives, my hair escaping from its ponytail in a tangled mess... i looked like nothing more than the bastard child of charles manson and strawberry shortcake, and i was, as they say, mad with the power.

i laid the super killer down and walked slowly into the bathroom, resisting the urge to fry the gnat that followed me in there. i brushed my teeth, one eye on the mirror looking out for flies. thankfully, there were none. i kept my eyes trained straight ahead as i gathered my computer and my tea and headed for the bedroom, where i would settle in with jordan catalano and angela chase and let their teenage angst override my insecticidal fantasies as i drifted off to sleep.

i feel like the entomological dexter. i can't say that it's an entirely bad feeling, either.

sisters.

there's some scary health stuff going on with people i love, and i'm talking to my sister about it.

me: aaaaaargh.

tracy: ??

me: i'm just stressed.

tracy: i'm sorry.

me: i feel like i'ma barf.

tracy: i'll barf with you if you want.

i love that woman.