Mrs. Tomato Head…

Burn baby burn!

I have a disco inferno all over my face from standing outside for two- ten hour days watching people look at houses (for the new TV show). Most of the last day involves standing around outside waiting for a house deal/negotiation to go through (or not).

Sunscreen? It’s so windy and cloudy who needs it?

I did.

Between the work and the sun I’ve aged by twenty years today.

So I says to the husband I says, “Do I look like an old lady?”

“Yes” he answered (with his last dying breath).

“WHA-AT?!” I asked, astonished.

“You’re my old lady” he stated, flashing a patronizing grin.

So the red? It’s a mixture of cloud and sun with a hint of anger and humility, should clear by mid day when the husband leaves the house until dinner time when it will turn verrrry dark.

He Blames ME!?

Unfreaking believable.

Look what that man did to my baby.

http://www.bombippy.com/archives/2006/04/i_blame_the_wif.php

The Other British Invasion…

They’re cool!

They’re hip!

They have accents and they’re not afraid to use ‘em.

Did I mention they’re mostly gay?

This is the ‘new job’ theme and such an influence it is! I stand at my closet in the morning and I look at the clothes and I think I have it together: frilly skirt, suede boots with a little heel, cropped corduroy jacket, simple pullover and the tada - a beige fleece wrap. Tres elegant? No?

No.

By one pm I looked dowdy and lumpy, my hair was having it’s own day and wasn’t even speaking to the rest of me. I swear I am my own worst enemy. I’m told I have at meeting at 7:30…PM! With the Big GB’s.

“Oh, and look how nice you look?” added the Gay with a Twist (not a real Brit but has an accent- a wanna be as it were).

Ugh, thought I banging my desk like Charlie Brown.

But I pulled out all the Canadian stops. I laughed at how they said ‘Ga-rodge’ and asked “why anyone would want something made of brown stone? Live in a FLAT? Really.” I laid on every Canadian TV term and condescendingly added “oh, you refer to it as what? A SOT? SOT, sound on tape, SOT?” then with a bored expression added, “Innnnnteresting”. Then I told them why an approach we are going to take will lead to nothing less than brilliant and they nodded, with lisps.

And those Gay Brits?

Totally slayed. Loved my ideas. Said, “good show!” and “very pleased, very pleased”

It proved that no matter how dowdy you look, or think you look, even when your hair’s attitude is worse than your own, if you act like a snot and make fun of the British in a sarcastic manner they will become little boys.

And love you.

When I Was Your Age…

I hated living at home,
hated school
felt dissatisfied with my friends,
hated having schedules, chores, curfews and
my parents yelling at me ALL THE TIME.

I wanted privacy
craved being isolated
so I could live in my head
inventing a better place

I feared the future
how would I eat, pay rent, survive?
how do people do it every day?

And even though many years have passed, I look at you and I remember that those fears, worries, hates, desires are everything when you’re experiencing them.

Change, my baby girl, is not to be feared but embraced.

I do understand what you’re going through (C’mon, you’ve met your grandmother haven’t you?) and even understand that you have to hate me.

I see your need to let go and I get it, believe me. When the time comes I will happily let you leave.

But I don’t know if I can ever let go.

I love you, Vanessa
(two more sleeps until you’re 18)

Let The Sunshine…

Let the sunshine in!

No, really, it’s freaking cold and gloomy out there.

But HAIR was fun!

I only threatened to get naked and sing along once! The almost but not quite 18 year old FREAKED!

“Don’t even joke” she threatened as I began to pull at my shirt, hands criss-crossed at the hem already.

“But they probably want audience participation!” I cried above the singing.

She shrank in her seat and sat as far away as she could from me, hand at her brow.

The nekkid part (not mine, the cast’s) was very brief and lit with ridiculously low lighting. These were the buffest, cuttest, trimmest, eight-pack-est 20 year olds on the planet. It felt like I was looking at defiant gymnasts as they stood and faced the audience for ten seconds. Not an ugly one in the crowd. We recognized one of the performers as a past instructor at the Toronto dance studio the eighteen year old bopped around in as a child. Its the same place where Mike Meyers learned musical theatre and dance as a kid. We recognized Cleo BEFORE she was naked in spite of the way I structured those sentences. She seems still to be as snobby and as unsmiling as she was as a teen.

The 18 year old, her friend and even the husband were not familiar with the music and the references were mostly foreign except for what is made fun of in commercials. Personally, I liked the trip back in time even though I was just a *cough* baby *cough* in the ‘60’s (we used to sing these songs in elementary school)! The talent was impressive even though the sound was difficult to discern- soloists were drowned out by chorus- the words are most important and you couldn’t make them out. The band was excellent and surprisingly quiet but the show used smoke more than once so those poor singers and musicians’ lungs were probably chafed by the end of the show.

Consolation Champ, James and the lovely Brook attended as well and even though Brook and I figured the husbands wouldn’t necessarily enjoy it, they seemed to. James commented on the Broadway-ese of the singers and how unnatural they all sounded. I guess I didn’t notice the Andrea McArdle (Annie) School of Singing until he mentioned it. To me it’s normal but he’s right - in the ‘60’s actors were cast for their different approach to singing -they didn’t all sound the same. In spite of everything that could be criticized the 18 year olds only had eyes for the cowboy and Indian characters (very cute) so much so they did not care to know what team they played on. (“But he has no hair on his body and he’s completely chiseled, check out the body language!” I tried to reason)

The girls seemed to love the evening and looked like they enjoyed the alternative era experience. In fact I know they felt inspired by the theme and the music so much because they listened to ‘RENT’ on the ipod all the way home.

Where do I go? Follow the children. Where do I go? Follow their smiles.
Is there a place, is there a someone that tells me why I live and die?

Discuss.

“Shining Gleaming Steamin’ Waxin’ Flaxen…

____!”

“Here baby there mama everywhere daddy daddy ____!”

How about….

“When the moon is in the seventh house and Jupiter aligns with Mars.”

or the other half…

“Leeeeeeetttttttt the sunshine, let the sunshine in the suuuuuuunshine innnnnn!”

or seriously…

“How can people be so heartless, how can people be so cruel? Easy to be harrrrrrd”

Guess which musical remake we’re going to see tonight?
It’s a gift for the very-nearly-almost-but-not-quite-18 year-old.
Holy smokes.

How Many Posts Can I Start With The Words…

So I started this new contract?

I interviewed for this job two months ago, they wanted to hire me then I recommended all my director friends when I accepted the full time job at the Big House that crushed my conviction and caused me sleepless nights until I quit on their ignorant….sorry. I digress.

This is another ‘Lifestyle’ program with a goofy title.

Day one…
Gay Boss: (kiss kiss Euro-style) Hug me.
Me: WTF?
GB: Is it me? Does everyone hate me? Is there a problem with communication or is it something I said? Do I not make sense?
Me: (A guy with PMS, charming) No it’s not you.
GB: (Near hysterical)Thank heavens you’re here. Hug me.

That was the first ten minutes.

I guess the show isn’t quite tweaked, yet. In fact I’m still not sure what happens in two of the four acts because they haven’t been put together yet. Oh, and none of it has been approved at the network.

Did I mention I start shooting next week?

Hug me.

Bas-akwards…

There are things I just learned about this site.
Quirky things.
Quirky like me.

You comment, I check my email and see those comments. Yes?
No.
Your comments sometime go into email sometimes directly to my site.

Sometimes your comments end up in ether getting pickled and preserved and sit in a huge jar in a country bar with eggs, onions and other things arrested in development.

I get comments. I did not know that. The husband informed me that site meter has not been registering the other 400 hundred hits a day I get. My weekly stats tell me 124 people came to my site last week.

All week.

You read and comment and I’m off with the fairies lalalalala.

The husband suggests my site may have some quirks, but I should still check my site. commenting on comments is perfectly polite and I do not do that because I don’t see my own comments.

Lalalalala I can’t hear you.

Oh, and I just checked? And you guys are funny! The comments are totally enjoyable, legible, in the queen’s Engrish and everything and I have not acknowledged you.

So…

Wayne Gretzky? Has the smell left your van, yet?
Stan Lee? Book him through me, his agent. We are expensive.
Jendo? LOOOOOOVE YOU. (most brilliant writer on this here internet box)
Paul? It’s tax season. Your wife knows you’re reading my blog, at leasst add something while you’re looking at my site.
Other Paul? Thanks, kids, can’t shoot ‘em….
Simian? Has it stopped snowing out there yet?
Hula? You’re so kind. Thank you for the comment.
The Husband? I’m only off with the fairies, you’re prancing through the daffodils!
Philip? I quit you. Blogging should give you joy or don’t do it.
Everybody else? Beuller? Can a car on a track in reverse actually reverse the mileage? Always wanted to know.

Love ya mean it.

Pass the Gravy…

My mother is a humanist. She has zero tolerance for any religion because religion causes people to fight and kill other people. To me that’s like saying guns kill people.

Her zero tolerance agenda extends to conservatives, men, teenagers, liberals who lean to the right, her only daughter and anyone who pollutes. She knows all the answers to everything and has taken the time to form an opinion on everything. Everything. Now that she’s a Raging Granny she has an insatiable need to offer her opinion on everything.

All raging all the time.

This makes for lively family get togethers.

Although she is invited to EASTER dinner the day Christians celebrate the resurrection of the Lord (He is risen indeed), she shows up with her zero tolerance agenda and shoves it down our throats. Just in case you might mistake her for someone who would actually see anything positive that this guy brought to the world, be he a profit, God’s only begotten son or just some carpenter -you have to admit he made quite an impression. Yet, to her anyone who chooses to follow Christ’s teachings is just looking for an argument.

I don’t shove my beliefs down her or anyone’s throat out of courtesy and respect for the rights of others to their own beliefs, but she doesn’t get why someone would believe in anything other than their own human abilities. I rarely discuss my beliefs with anyone because people never hesitate to state exactly what they think of Christianity (these same people show a modicum of respect to Jewish people, Muslims and atheists). I am not from the American south, I don’t believe religion belongs in schools or politics, I think gay men can make great dads and I stand behind my right NOT to judge, I am not holier than thou. I struggle with sin, I strive for grace, honesty and (not-so secretly) patience.

My maternal grandmother was Jewish, my mother (the rager) was baptized a Catholic (now a humanist), my father was Lutheran (now an atheist) his own mother became a Catholic. I spent years trying to understand God, guilt, shame, joy, love, trust and death. There was only one answer for me and I’m living it, quietly but firmly.

It would just be nice not to feel defensive about my beliefs in my own home.
(Thanks for allowing me to vent)

News Flash!

The easter bunny is my mother!

After searching high and low for chocolate eggs the six year old was satisfied he found them all. During breakfast he sat scrutinizing a gift tag on a stuffed toy.

“It looks like Oma’s printing on the card!” he said.

“Wait, do you know what you’re saying?” I asked.

“Yeah, my grandmother is the easter bunny” he said confidently.

“Really, how would she do that?” I asked.

“She would wear a bunny suit and hide all the—” he stopped himself short. “No it couldn’t be Oma” he added.

“Because she lives far away and wouldn’t hide eggs in our house in the middle of the night? Or because she’s 75 years old and wouldn’t wear a bunny costume?” I asked, a tad sarcastically.

“No because Oma could never jump high enough to hide those eggs”.

Seems logical.

I just have this picture of a 75 year old easter bunny saying in a Darth Vader voice, “Look I am your grandmother!”

Mojotivated!

Ma-ma-ma my mojo just got back and boy was it p____d !
It wanted to kick my butt.
It was not impressed with the moping and the chocolate eating and the sneering lip curl.

It was verrrrry disappointed in me.

So it made me shop. Yup. My mojo took me to the mall to buy stuff…and quasi-necessary junk.

Like shooooooz!

Much shoes were celebrated and brought home. Many George’s now live in my closet and I have promised to take them out and hug them often.

The seventeen year old (who is newly single after her one year relationship with #18 ended last week and no she won’t tell me why and no we are not allowed to call him and ask. We are allowed to miss him and make eye contact if he is working at the grocery store and sees us and we are allowed to be friendly. There has been no sign of weeping or gnashing of teeth- just some sleepless nights and the usual moodiness.) won the shopping-with-she-who-embarasses-us lottery.

That set the six year old weeping and gnashing his teeth.
“I want to gooooo!” he cried.

“Big Boy! You don’t want to shop with them! C’mon we’ll go for bagels!” offered the husband. Helpfully.

“Noooooo!” He yelled running from us.

“No?” the husband asked, dumbfounded, to no one in particular.

“I’ll take you later. After we get back. Just you and me, OK?” I called out as we left.

Three hours later, one shopping frenzy down I was met at the door by the six year old.

“Myturn?Isitmytuhn?Canwegowightnow?IwanttogetaBatmanthatwillfitinthebatmobile”

Ten minutes later we were in the toy aisles of a not-so-major retail chain.

“This sucks! They don’t even have a Batman. Can we go to StuffMaht?” he complained.

“No. Find something else.” I then proceeded to point out four kajillion toys that would suffice.
He nixed them all.

Finally we found some Ice Age 2 The Meltdown figurines complete with ice floe.

“Look! Ice Age Two The Meltdown figurines with ice floe! I want this!” he shared.

“Please”

“Please” he added.

Did I mention the reason he was getting a treat?

He helped clean up his room and even cleared out some of his older toys.

At least we now have some shelf space for the latest ‘thing’ (right next to the shoes that’ll probably be worn once).

But welcome back my mojo, anyway!

“Look In The Pocket!”

I unzipped the little pocket on the outside of his backpack.

“Do you see it?” he asked, standing patiently.

“This? It looks like a little booklet. Did you make this?” I asked.

“Yeah, it’s my planet book. I hafta’ work on it some more today. See I only made Jupiter, see the ring? Could you put it back in now? I hafta’ go” he said as the bell pealed.

“There you go…OK, bye” His foot pushed distance between us, as he commandeered his scooter away. About thirty feet on he stopped abruptly and turned back.

“Know which planet is my favourite?” he yelled.

(Please don’t say it please don’t say it don’t say Uranus oh please please please don’t say it)

“Neptune!”

He smiled sweetly, turned and scooted into the school.

Zo…Vill Zis Be A Long Break?

Today marks the beginning of the second week of my um, hiatus. Yeah, that’s the ticket…hiatus.

The exit interview is over, the written submission took all weekend but it’s done, and today I should have started looking for contract work back in the secular freelance world.

Luckily one of my friends was having a break down.

Nothing like someone else’s freak out to make you feel ‘normal’. So Instead of updating my resume and calling around I helped rearrange furniture (just pianos and large wooden cupboards, sofas, doors, breakable glassware), laying a rug under the dining room table, vacuuming and entertaining a 4 month old.

But I had the better end of the deal. I got my pansies and ivy planted in their containers and she even had to cut chicken wire!

I got to push the baby in the carriage around the block.

It was good therapy.

…The Whole Truth…

Two days
head firmly held in the past
Thoughts course downward
Through a complicated network
of prickly nerves

Agitated fingertips
clack
out
words
that must be read

Anger re-ignited
in syncopated rhythm
with every click

Bright Spots…

You’re discussing a situation with your husband and you mention a name. Your six your old looks up and says, “That’s the one that makes you cry, right?”.

And you laugh.
_______________________

Going on a photographic hike with your husband and it turns into a blood sport.

“I saw it first!”

“No, me!”

“Oh I wanted that angle, let me take that one!”

“It’s not level, it’ll never turn out!”

“Neither is the earth, get lost!”

Only we could turn something so serene and lovely into a competition.

———————————

Throwing elbow macaroni, a can of peas, mushroom soup and tuna all together, calling it a casserole and watching the seventeen year old get excited that she’s finally getting a decent meal.

————————————

Getting phone calls and emails sending prayers, well wishes, votes of confidence and support for a battle I had not intended to wage. I’m now at the point of no return but if my words can impact positive change for others in the future…so be it.

————————————

He Shoot! He Score! He Lose Anyway!

Watched the six year old play his last hockey game of the year. (Apparently I wasn’t dressed to code. My jeans weren’t tight enough, the shoes lacked heels and pointy toes. I wasn’t wearing a cute tight sweater under a puffy vest and my makeup was insufficient in that it did not create an entirely different face nor was my hair lifted into a gravity defying hold. I have failed the hot hockey mom dress code. On the other hand I wasn’t wearing my running shoes, tight jeans or an extra large men’s hockey jacket, I have all my teeth and I wasn’t standing around blowing second-hand smoke in the kids faces as they arrived for the playoffs. I guess I also failed the not-so-hot hockey moms dress code.)

They lost, but the six year old got a goal.

“I am his mother!! Me! I know he doesn’t look like me but I gave birth to him! The goal scorer!” I yelled to all, blushing.

Then they had a smelly ceremony with all four teams of smelly five year olds in one hot community room. Did I mention the SMELL?

The six year old got a medal. For sportsmanship.

“I am his mother!! Me! I know he doesn’t look like me but I gave birth to him! The medal winner! My son!” I cried to all who would listen.

So. Proud.

“Bye suckas!” I said to the not-so-hot hockey moms as I danced out the doors. “Smell ya’ later!” I yelled back at the kids.

What are they gonna’ do? BAN ME?!?!?!

Bring it.

Awt…

darlings!

The six year old has some new dashing and daring Daniel’s Doodles if you dare!

Exit…

Stage left.

Sadness is seeping in now, as I predicted it would. It struggles with frustration for domination. I let them tussle preferring to just stare at a blank wall, a computer screen, a crossword puzzle, nothing.
Quitting what I thought was a ‘calling’ leaves me in this ever-changing state. I fully expect denial, depression and hopefully acceptance to show up soon. It should be soon after all I was only six weeks into the job.

Six intense weeks.

Mending broken important connections, creating a team from resistance to tenuous connectivity, bridging the abyss caused by a decade of decay and questioning the unhinged logic that ignorance tries but can’t manage to dazzle and blind. Too many of the ‘sighted’ stand back flabbergasted at the buffoonery. Sleepless nights, that ‘sick’ feeling that something ‘just ain’t right’ and not getting the answers that would allow for peace and acceptance just more worry.
I wasn’t an answer to prayer.

God knows.

But I tried to do what was right.

I wonder what adventure will befall me next.
Operative word: befall.