You’ve done something different with your… uh… hair?
Well, it has been so long, hasn’t it? I know you must be pretty pissed at me, Internets. But I have been really busy, you see…
I gots this new job, and my husband went back to school, and then my kid started school for the first time.
I had no intention of ignoring you, but… oh fuck it. Let’s just go straight to some pictures of my new puppy. You can’t be mad at me looking at pictures of a fluffy puppy.
This is Dusty. He is 8 weeks old and we think he is a shepard/retriever/pancake mix.
We have delayed getting a dog for a long time. The primary reason is that we have not had a fence for our backyard until about 5 days ago, which Husband built very well.
Daughter went to her friend’s birthday party yesterday. With three hours to work, Husband and I planned to hit up the local animal shelters to find us a dog. Our search concluded at the first animal shelter we went to, the main Charleston shelter on Leeds Avenue.
The first dog we looked at was a skinny, long-legged thing, and she really didn’t seem to give a damn that we were interested in saving her from death. She completely ignored us, not even approaching us when we offered to let her smell our butts.
NEXT!
In the last cage were three puppies: two girls and a boy. The volunteer who was helping us let us know that the girls were spoken for, but we could take a look at the boy. I picked him up, and that was pretty much it. As soon as he laid his little head on my shoulder, I was sold. Husband smirked at me for being such a tender-hearted wuss.
During our previous discussion about getting a dog we had made Daughter understand we needed a fence before we could get one. At that time, we had also discussed doggy names. Daughter held firm to her stipulations that we get her a girl dog and that she wanted to name her Belle. Or Ariel. Or Jasmine. Or Sleeping Beauty.
We brought the puppy home to Daughter and she was only 50% thrilled when she learned that he was male. I asked her what she wanted to name him because “Belle” wasn’t a name for boy dogs.
“Spider-man?”
Dusty, you are lucky I’m sticking up for you.
More pictures of the boy are in my Flickr stream to the right.
It was a Sunday night in January. I don’t remember the exact date, but I have always remembered it was a Sunday. If I hadn’t just quit the job from Hell, I never would have gone out on a work night.
A night or two prior, I had been chatting online when the conversation was hijacked by a young woman named Monica with low self-esteem. She was sending a JPEG of herself to everyone in the chat room and asking all, “Am I pretty?”
In a rare display of Internet affection, many of the chatters were agreeing that yes, she was pretty. The more honest people in the room were diplomatically suggesting that the photo was bad and they really couldn’t calculate how attractive she was.
What Monica lacked in self-esteem, she made up for in perseverance. “We should all meet up! And then you guys can tell me if I am pretty or not.”
I agreed to join in this ludicrous undertaking, mostly out of unemployed boredom. As I wouldn’t be working the next day, when Monica suggested meeting on Sunday at a Denny’s in Pacific Beach, there wasn’t any particular reason to say “no.”
Several people in the chat room began begging for a ride to the meet, and I offered my services. A guy named Jay and I sent private messages back and forth for a few minutes to nail down the logistics. He wrote that he needed to talk to me on the phone before he would accept a ride, for safety reasons. This seemed sensible enough to me, so I got his number and called him up. Jay and I talked on the phone for a few minutes until he felt assured that I possessed a vagina. Thusly assured, Jay felt comfortable enough to ride in a car with me and to also offer the news that he and his wife had an “open” marriage.
Thusly discomforted, I yelped into the phone, “Dude! All I am going to do is drive you to Denny’s!”
“All I am saying is… you know… hey, if you don’t believe me I’ll put my wife on the phone and she’ll tell you tha…”
“DUDE! You are married and I am not cool with that! Not that I wasn’t even thinking of this as a date!”
Finally realizing that I was serious, Jay defeatedly said, “Okay! okay! Are you still gonna give me a ride?”
“Yah, I guess so…”
Before I started my car on Sunday night, I reached under my seat to make sure that my five pound Maglite was still there. Just in case Jay wanted to discuss in person his marital situation.
I drove to Jay’s house in Mira Mesa and pick him up and then we headed to Pacific Beach. The particular Denny’s in question was located at the end of Garnet Avenue and about a block from the ocean. It featured an outdoor patio where diners were bathed in the glow of the green neon that lined the perimeter of the restaurant’s roof. The effect of which made each person look about twenty seconds from upchucking a “Moons Over My Hammy.”
Several other people from the chat room were already seated on the patio. However, Jay was the only one I knew in person and I was already giving him the cold shoulder. Everyone say around the long table in complete silence. The social strategy of the evening seemed to call for staring at your knuckles or winding plastic straws around your fingers. The gentleman to my right declined either option and began trying to set the soles of his shoes on fire with his Zippo.
I sat in silence for a few minutes. I heaved a sigh and asked my neighbor to the left if he had a pen I could borrow. He handed me a blue ballpoint. I wrote on my napkin, “Meretrice: A/S/L? :)” and handed both pen and napkin back.
My neighbor laughed and wrote something on the napkin and passed it to his left. Soon the napkin made a complete circuit back to me. Everyone at the table was laughing at making small talk. Several “private messages” were also being delivered as individuals took their own napkins and passed them around — folded, of course.
About the time my disposable chat room had complete its second circumnavigation of the table, I looked up from my knuckles to see that someone new had arrived. Without saying a word, he went up to the guy sitting across from me and thrusted out his tongue. The tongue was decorated with a freshly installed piercing.
I hindsight, I wish I could say that my reaction was something along the lines of, “There is the man I am going to marry!” or even “You so crazy! I wanna have your baby!”
Rather, I rolled my eyes and muttered under my breath, “Oh, that’s mature!”
Nonetheless, the skinny man with piercings would indeed become my Husband. Almost exactly two years after that fateful Sunday night, I gave birth to his Daughter. Today is our fifth wedding anniversary.
Happy anniversary, honey. I love you.
Postscript: Monica never did show up that night.
Postscript 2: Edited to correct some horrendous grammar and to add a picture from about the time we met of Husband looking thuper thexy. THUPER!
At her daycare, Daughter’s teachers have been insisting that she call them, “ma’am.” Growing up in California, the only people who were called “ma’am” was an 85 year old grandmother, and usually not even then. Needless to say, Husband and I have been amused and bemused to hear our little one call me “ma’am.”
Last week, when she wasn’t feeling his boobies, Daughter started calling Husband, “Ma’am!” We explained patiently to her that grown-up women are called, “ma’am,” but grown-up men are called “sir.”
She has yet to call him, “sir.” Not sure what that’s about.
This morning, Daughter asked me to help her put on a necklace and I replied, “Yes, ma’am!” (I’m funny like that)
Daughter replied indignantly, “I’m not a Mannnnn!”
“I didn’t call you a man, I called you a ma’ammmm.”
“Oh.”
Then the lightbulb turned on, “Is that why you were calling Daddy that? Because you thought you were saying “Man?”
“Yes, Mommy.”
Great. For a month now, my daughter has been calling me a man.
P.S. I added Flickr to the sidebar of the blog.
As I was making dinner last night, I listened to Husband and Daughter playing in the living room. They were engaged in a rollicking game of “Supergirl.”
You probably remember that game. Your father or older brother lays prone on the floor with his legs in the air. Then you balance somewhat precariously on his knees, or if you are really adventurous, on his feet. With both arms stretched out in front, you pretend to feel the wind in your face as you fly faster than a speeding bullet. Of course, when your partner’s legs start to get tired, balancing yourself becomes more difficult and you topple down onto the floor, or in Daughter’s case this time, on her daddy’s chest.
I listened to Daughter’s raucous giggles as she exclaimed, “Daddy, I felt your boobies!“
Daddy, who honestly does not have any man-titties, was indignant and replied sharply, “I do not have boobies!”
Daughter wasn’t buying this. “Yes, you do! I grabbed your boobies! Daddy has boobies!”
Husband called for reinforcements from the only family member who genuinely has breasts and could explain to Daughter that he did not have boobies. “April! You need to handle this one!”
I came into the living room, and got down on my knees so that I could look Daughter squarely in the eyes. “Daughter… do not grab Daddy’s boobies. Those are private parts and you should never grab or touch anyone’s boobies. Do you understand?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Now Daughter, you need to tell Daddy that you’re sorry.”
“Sorry, Daddy.”
Husband gave me a look that clearly meant, “That’s not what I needed you to say,” and then looked back at Daughter.
He sighed, “That’s okay.”
My husband is an agnostic. I call myself a Christian. Husband doesn’t know if there is a heaven or a hell - and he doesn’t care. To his way of thinking, if you make the best of life on earth, it doesn’t matter what happens when you are buried under it.
I suppose if I had lived Husband’s life, I wouldn’t care either. Husband has already spit the Devil in his eye and climbed out of the fiery pits. What Husband doesn’t realize, and would probably make him laugh, is that when I doubt, when my faith waivers, I think of what he has been through and I am restored.
Husband was born with the cards stacked against him. He is almost completely deaf in one ear, and partially deaf in the other. He refuses to wear a hearing aid (macho pride!), yet most people never realize that he is hearing impaired. Husband taught himself how to read lips and somehow to maintain his balance perfectly. His hearing impairment was the least of his childhood problems.
Husband’s parents both failed him through a systematic program of neglect, abandonment and physical abuse. Their myriad sins are impossible to enumerate here. I don’t even know what all of them are, although I am cognizant of what Husband’s father did every time I hug him. Thanks to my father-in-law’s “wrestling” with Husband, I can not squeeze Husband as tightly as I would like because his ribs were broken numerous times and never healed properly.
Husband’s mother - I hardly know where to begin, or where to stop. I think the best way to describe her is “sociopath.” His mom does what she wants, whenever she wants, with no care how it affects others, including her children. She abandoned Husband’s father and her two children when Husband was a toddler. A formerly successful engineer, she has lost everything due to her selfishness and never ending search for the next high.
By the age of thirteen, Husband was short for his age and wiry. Husband was also an alcoholic. I have heard three separate stories from different family members about finding him literally passed out drunk in the gutter. Evidently, in his family, this was a source of amusement for them. The stories weren’t told with sadness or guilt, but as if they were describing how their son and brother blew up his science project in the basement. Cue the laugh track.
At fourteen, Husband turned to his mother’s choice of drugs, crystal meth. He was a tweaker. About the time he started tweaking, he escaped his father’s house and became homeless. On a good night, Husband would crash on a friend’s couch. On the bad nights, and most of them were, Husband slept in the sewers. The streets are not kind to anyone, but they reserve special tortures for slightly-built pubescent boys. While Husband generally doesn’t hesitate to talk about his past, he has never told me much about those times. Part of me doesn’t want to know.
Then at the age of 17, Husband received news that would change his life forever. His girlfriend was pregnant. Husband realized that he was in no position to be a father, but he would do what little he could. He contacted a friend in South Dakota and he asked if he could live with her while he tried to get clean. As he told me years later, “I figured in South Dakota, there were no drugs.”
Husband’s friend agreed, and he left San Diego. Husband lived in South Dakota and did indeed get clean. His oldest daughter will be 12 years old this July.
When I reflect on Husband’s life, I praise God for seeing him through those hard times and bringing Husband to me. Husband bears his scars with grace and dignity - most people would never guess all that he has been through.
Husband is by no means perfect. He remains an addict, although now his drugs of choice are Dr Pepper and cigarettes. When we argue, he uses the defense mechanisms of the addict: manipulation and redirecting the blame. But when I call him on his bullshit, he will sit quietly for a minute and then we can begin to work through the problem.
The miracle of Husband’s story is that despite the hell Husband survived, he is a loving and trusting spouse and father. I have met many of the people he knew when he was a tweaker. Many of them are still doing illegal drugs, and/or have HIV or some other STD. Some I will never meet because they are dead. At best, they are surviving, but are incapable of functioning in a relationship with their partners and children. They are the new generation of abusers and perpetuation that demon cycle.
Furthermore, Husband has forgiven his parents and loves them without blame or resentment. If God can work such a powerful miracle on Husband’s heart, I know there is nothing that He can’t do and nothing that He can not heal.
Last night, Husband and I attended a local meeting to elect officers for our neighborhood crime watch. We have been very active in setting up the crime watch, including starting the new website, designing and printing survey cards, and offering ideas and suggestions to our neighbors. The meeting last night was a great success. Over 80 residents attended and they seemed pleased with our efforts.
At about 5:00 p.m. yesterday afternoon, shortly before the meeting, I received a phone call from my neighbor. She said that Live 5 News was coming to her house in a few minutes and wanted to interview local residents about the crime watch and the problems in our neighborhoods. My neighbor is sick with the flu and there was no way she could appear on camera. Would I be willing to be interviewed? Oh, why the hell not!
First problem, I had been working on Sangaree Connection since 9 o’ clock that morning. When I am in full web development mode, I don’t eat, I don’t bathe, I don’t brush my teeth. The only breaks I allow myself is sucking down cigarettes while trying to figure out why Internet Explorer is such a piece of crap.
Fortunately, because of the meeting, I had stopped working and I had just stepped out of the shower when my neighbor called. Unfortunately, my hair was soaking wet, my legs unshaved, and I had no idea what I was going to wear to the meeting. I went to the bathroom and busted out the good makeup that I normally reserve for receiving the Queen and attending movie premieres. I slathered that shit on thick! I raced around the house collecting the materials for the meeting and tried to figure out what I was going to wear. I settled on a pink button-down shirt, blue jeans, and my cutest (and therefore most uncomfortable) shoes. I would regret the shoe choice about two hours later.
Husband had come home from work while I was getting ready. He has immediately pummeled with a barrage of “Do I look okays?” and “Are you sures?” and “You didn’t even look at mes!” as I hurdled past him to find my camera and my binder and my purse and my keys and my survey cards. We left the house as quickly as possible and naturally as soon as we reached my Daughter’s daycare to pick her up I realized that I still hadn’t brushed my teeth. Oh well, I hadn’t eaten so far that day, how dirty could my teeth be?
We met with the reporter, Katie, and she asked us some background information regarding how long we lived in the neighborhood, were we scared to live here now, and why we were involved in the crime watch. Daughter supplied her own background information to Katie:
When I was a baby, I had a birthday when I was one! And I ate the wrapping paper! *giggle* Then I had another birthday when I was two. That was my second birthday. Then I had a birthday when I was three. And then I had my fourth birthday when I turned four!
Katie looked perplexed and asked Daughter, “So how old are you now?” In unison, Daughter and I told the reporter that she was now four years old. I then pulled out of my arsenal of Parental Distractions the permission for Daughter to play with my neighbor’s cats. She raced on pudgy legs into the house.
Time was running short, so with our neighbors’ help, we all agreed that Katie would interview me near a fence that was vandalized. Initially, Katie wanted to interview Husband, but he declined (coward!) some lame comment about how he was so over being on TV when he was a kid. Over at the fence, the cameraman handed me a mini microphone. As instructed, I threaded it up under my shirt and attached it to my jacket. After finding suitable lighting, the camera began rolling. Katie asked me a series of intelligent questions and my mouth began issuing forth noises.
My mind was racing ten thousand miles per hour and for the most part I was thinking deep thoughts such as “Shit, my glasses are sliding down my nose! Shit! I was gonna take my glasses off for this! Oh crap, she asked another question, what was I gonna say?”
When we were done filming, Katie assured me that I had done well and provided her with lots of good soundbites. She practically did a little dance in her sharply tailored pink suit when she thought of my fantastic soundbites.
The video is now online and I have to admit, I didn’t come off like a complete asshat. If I were to critique myself (like I ever stop doing that) I would say that I need to stand up straighter, stop weaving my head and neck like I am a hungry chicken, and find a method of digging facts and figures out of my brain that doesn’t involve rolling my eyes.
My favorite part of the video is definately the last soundbite where I was talking about the vandals who destroyed $25,000 worth of equipment in our new library, “And these people come in here and they destroy it! And for what purpose?”
That’s right, feel my outrage! Boo-yah!
“Hey, the next time we have sex… can you call me ‘Madam Secretary?’”
“I didn’t even vote for you!”
At last all of your questions can be answered! Okay, no one actually asked me any questions, but let’s pretend that there are dozens of people dying to know about my super-secret web development project.
Introducing… Sangaree Connection!
Sangaree Connection is a project that I am starting with some fellow residents of our subdivision. We have become sick and tired of the lawlessness in our neck of the woods and want to organize our neighbors to fight back and build community spirit. The goal of the website is to give the residents a forum to discuss their concerns with each other, as well as earning some money to fund community projects like a crime watch.
This was a very exciting project for me because it forced me to go way outside my comfort level and deal with PHP, databases, JavaScript and other scary, scary DHTML tools. I installed WordPress on the server and I am using it to manage Sangaree Connection’s blog. I am quite happy with WordPress thus far. I will probably be dumping Blogger very soon and use WordPress for Once Upon a Time. Husband installed a message board and online calendar also, although I did all of the integration with the rest of the site.
By the way, Internet Explorer can kiss my butt. I hate that broswer. For best viewing of Sangaree Connection, I recommend Firefox or Netscape. IE will work fine too, but I just don’t like it.
“There’s something un-American about square hamburgers”
“So why do you eat at Wendy’s?”
“I don’t eat their hamburgers!”
“But you are still supporting them…”
“…and that’s just like supporting terrorism!”
