Friday, August 28, 2015

My Odd Mom Out Experience

A few weeks back I attended a baby shower with tasteful decorations, great food, beer and sangria and no stupid baby shower games.  Overall this baby shower receives a 9.5/10 only because there was no bloody mary bar.  When it came time for Mother-To-Be (MTB) to open presents there was the obligatory "ohhs" and "ahhs", "oh yes you will DEFINITELY need that", "I've heard that this item is a MUST!", "My little Sylvester LOVES his (insert super specific and expensive baby toy that you could easily make out of an old newspaper and dog hair).  And then the most important present was opened, a must read piece of classic literature titled "Go the Fuck to Sleep". There was an instant eruption of laughter, giggles (some uncomfortable) and chatter that filled the room up to the vaulted ceiling followed by one lone and very reasonable voice, "Go ahead and read an excerpt!" To which the MTB, who is as sweet as pie (no joke) responded "Really?!  Should I?!  OK!"

After starting at the beginning she quickly realized she just HAD to find out how it ended.  Those of us with kids already know how it ends, with the truth, the truthiest of all Truths, nobody gets to sleep, ever.  So she continued to read and about half way through she stops, laughs and asks the group, "Do I really read this to my kid?" To which I smiled and nodded "yes!" while at the same time all the other guests simultaneously, like a chorus of angels, chimed "No, of course not!" I immediately slinked back into the shadows and shoved a cupcake into my mouth because I have already read this book and the sequel "You Have to Fucking Eat" to my child...regularly.

The truth is my kid, your kid, MTB's kid is going to hear swear words whether from these classic pieces of literature, the T.V., Grandma, or some random person running down the street in only a pair of socks and a bowler hat.  And while I don't WANT my child to use swear words, this concern is at the bottom of a very long list of concerns I have regarding what my son may do.  This list is not all inclusive, and with the exception of #1 all items are subject to change position or even be deleted at anytime:

1) Setting fire to anything
2) Chewing with his mouth open
3) Chewing gum
4) Wearing socks with sandals
5) Becoming a conservative (or worse, a libertarian)
535) Swearing

P.S. Odd Mom Out is a great, fantastic scripted T.V. show on Bravo that every person must watch.

Wednesday, January 15, 2014

Monday, January 13, 2014


The first time I saw it I did not think it could be true.  It was then and has been since.  “So, it has come to this,” I think as in the hand glass I see my mom.

Written for Trifecta Writing Challenge, Trifextra Challenge:

Tuesday, January 7, 2014


She's up there.
Do you see her?
Behind the tree on the left,
or maybe on the rock to the right. 
She's up there
She could smell you for miles. 
She has been listening to you for hours. 
Her anticipation grows,
but she remains patient. 
She twitches the tip of her tail, shifts her haunches, feet flattened to the ground, muscles engaged. 
Her whiskers en pointe, she lifts her nose to the sky and tastes the air with a grimace. 
She has prepared for this for hours
And you,
well you will have less than one second to react.
Good luck.

Monday, January 6, 2014


Martin stares at me from the front stoop as I leave for work in the morning.  It is the same stare that will greet me when I arrive home in the evening.  This stare does not depict sorrow or fear at seeing me leave or joy upon my return.  Instead Martin’s stare is empty.  The stare says: “Do what you want; your choices can no longer affect my life.  Come, go, laugh, cry, live, die.  It makes no fucking difference to me.  Whatever.”  This indifferent attitude is probably for the best since Martin’s not so distant future includes a soak in boiling water followed by a bleach bath. 

Cory said that Martin was one of the older ones, weighing only about 160 lbs with a 2x2 rack.  I tell Martin this is nothing to be ashamed of, that the size and proportions of a rack are not all that matter.  Martin stares at me, “whatever.” 

As Cory and I sit down to dinner, I offer a silent prayer of thanks to Martin for his sacrifice, and I know the disembodied head on the front stoop is staring into the twilight lit wooded front yard.  Whatever.

Submitted  to for the week 109 challenge.

Sunday, January 5, 2014

It's a Small World After All

While traveling in northern Italy a few years back I made my way to Genoa, the birth place of Christopher Columbus, so obviously a suiting mecca for any world explorer.  It wasn't until after I stepped off the train that I consulted my Lonely Planet and realized Genoa may just be the crappiest part of my journey.  My guide book informed me that really, the only place to see in Genoa was the downtown area; apparently there is nothing else to see here.  A few paragraphs later the guide book informed me that women traveling alone should avoid the downtown area due to crime, the sex trade and what not.  I'm a woman, I was 24 years old and I was traveling alone. Perfect.  So I made the decision to just head to the hostel and call it a night.   

Using my guide book I determined which bus to board and quickly found a seat.  I wasn't 5 minutes into the ride when the elderly woman across the isle started ranting (I am assuming here since I don't speak any Italian but the look on her face didn't make me think she was giving a glowing report) to no one in particular.  This diatribe (again, I'm assuming) went on for about 2 minutes until another elderly bus rider chided her (still assuming).  She stood up to exit the bus, turned around so that she was facing me and spit on the floor.  Being the na├»ve American that I am I didn't even consider her hate filled (still assuming) monologue was directed towards me until about 5 years later. I'm slow, let's face it.  So I sat there on the bus taking in the local custom of yelling random things at seemingly no one and thought "this is like every other city I have ever been in." 
A few stops later I picked up my back pack and prepared to unload but was quickly met with a deluge of protests from the elderly patrons, all in Italian, so I am sure the look on my face was one of total fear (when congregated, the elderly can be a scary force).  They were either informing me that there was an angry mob heading my way with torches lit, or that I had one more stop to go before the hostel.  I decided to wait and disembark at the next stop. There was no angry mob, so I headed to the hostel. 
Upon checking into the hostel, which looked more like an insane asylum, I was assigned my room number and decided to unpack, eat dinner and turn in for the night since I couldn’t safely explore the town.  I walked into the room, heavy with the day’s disappointments, and came face to face with the French Canadians, the most Napoleanesque of all the world travelers.  French Canadians are better than you in every way and they will tell you and show you this until it is ingrained in you and you feel like shit.  Fortunately they ignored me because I’m not worthy of their incomprehensible words.  I picked a bunk, unloaded my crap and headed to the empty cafeteria where I half-filled my tray and sat at an unoccupied table. 
“Excuse me” the voice said, I immediately looked up at the ceiling since I don’t remember seeing anyone else in the cafeteria so obviously the voice was coming from above.  As it turns out it wasn’t God apologizing for coughing but in fact two young ladies sitting behind me.  They invited me to join them and after determining by demeanor alone that they were not French Canadian, I accepted.  They were actually from Israel and were taking time to travel before entering the armed forces, which everyone in Israel, including women, must do unless they are conscientious objectors. We chatted about where we had traveled and where we were going and eventually moved up to the library, where we were joined by a young Australian lady.  The conversation did not follow any logical road map, jumping from topic to topic with mostly me and the Australian asking questions of the much younger Israelis. 
The events discussed in this entry took place in October 2002, 1 year and 1 month after our country was attacked and over one thousand people (Americans, foreigners, civilians, firemen, policemen, etc…) died because of one groups’ ignorance and fear.  To me and the Australian (who lost over 100 countrymen to a terrorist bomb in Bali the month before) these acts were infrequent in our countries and new to us.  To the Israelis this was life.  They chatted about the bomb shelters in their houses, the day bombs landed near their houses and the neighbors frantically called their names but they had been playing in the woods and didn’t know anything had happened.  They talked about their friends who had been in the city at the wrong time and had died by a car bomb.  They talked about taking gas masks they had outgrown to school and using them for craft projects.  All the while the Australian and I took it in and finally I asked, “How do you live like that, with the fear and not knowing, with death and all that hate?”  “You can’t live in fear; you can’t hole yourself up inside your house and not live, because that’s worse than dying.  It’s a part of our life, we’ve learned to live with it.”  They went on to discuss the ongoing conflict between the Palestinians and the Israelis and told us that they do not understand why Israel will not allow the Palestinians to occupy the West Bank.  They mentioned that their people have been persecuted and ostracized throughout history; so why, knowing how it feels, would they do this to other people.  The Australian and I had no answer to that, it seemed we were all in agreement: there was enough room for us all.

Eventually the conversation turned to lighter-hearted topics, mainly television shows.  And as it turns out all four of us had grown up watching Degrassi Junior High and Beverly Hills 90210.  I do not remember their names, I didn’t take their pictures and this account is solely from memory.  Thousands of miles, culture, experience, war and terror separated me from the Australian from the Israelis; but we had grown up watching the same television shows.  It is a small world after all.  And contrary to my initial thought, Genoa was far from the crappiest part of my journey, in fact it is the best memory I have of my two weeks in northern Italy.

Thursday, June 7, 2012














The canvas was filling up
Pollock would be impressed
But I can't see
I push the button



My view is clear

For now