Mine Eyes Have Seen the Gory

Oh-a. My-a. God-a.

Worth a Shot, Anyway

Ugh. Spent days working on an application for a position as a professional mommy blogger and finally sent it in yesterday. I’m certain they won’t hire me because, jeepers, I’m just not your typical mommy blogger. Although they state they want unique voices and perspectives, I'm pretty sure they mean unique perspectives on cookie recipes, toilet training, and how to speak at PTA meetings without looking the fool. Topical stuff, tips, helpful hints….I dunno. I write about weird things involving Banjo Boys, isolation, and anthropomorphic beasts. I use the F-word. I think it’s a grand idea to drink many beers and produce bad poetry. I don’t attend church. My left nostril is pierced, for Pete’s sake, which makes me equivalent to the Anti-Christ in some eyes. I don’t do helpful hints, and my four-year-old still refuses to poop in the toilet. Gossip nauseates me; if you confide in me, it remains with me. I will not pretend to like you if I don’t. Unfortunately, I dislike many of my “peers.” Not surprisingly, I’m not someone who gets invited to many neighborhood coffee klatches.

I may be a very cool mommy, a patient, attentive mommy who has a lot of common sense despite a lot of foibles, a mommy who monitors what the kids watch, knows their friends, a mommy who believes that treating children with respect is of the utmost importance, that allowing and honoring their individuality is key to high self-esteem, but…I also call my vacuum cleaner vile names -- within ear shot of the kids. There are times (ahem -- PMS) when I bitch loudly about crumbs on the couch, cry over my fading youth and beauty, hate the world and want to be alone, alone, ALONE! I crank Disturbed and System of a Down CDs, and I wear tank tops and flannel shirts with my denim, not nifty little sweater sets and crisp, white button-downs. I have an active interest in my children’s school-life, and keep abreast of the curriculum, contribute to classroom party treats, keep in regular contact with their teachers, but I’ve never attended a PTA meeting, nor do I plan to. Too busy doing the ten hours of “parental” homework the kids’ teachers send home every week or making a robot costume out of PVC and silver spray paint. Plus, I’m just not a joiner. Here’s your box of twenty-five cupcakes for the bake sale, Mrs. Dinklebaum, now go away.

I’m more along the lines of Rosanne, not June Cleaver.

I’m not a typical mommy blogger, and I was honest about that, within my bio and the sample posts I wrote for them. And that will be my downfall, my honesty. But I can‘t bring myself to misrepresent who I am and what I stand for. Even if it would mean an extra few hundred clams a month -- clams I badly need, by the way, but I guess not that badly. I’m a writer who also happens to be a mom, and just as I won’t compromise when it comes to my beliefs regarding good parenting, I won’t compromise when it comes to my writing. No way in hell.

Damn, though. I really could use the money…And I do love to cook…Have a ton of great recipes I could share…And my home is spotless, despite four kids…My kids are, for the most part, healthy and happy, and they behave themselves in public…Suppose it wouldn’t hurt to throw out a tip here and there…

Aw, screw it.

To Dream the Impossible Dream

I had a most delightful dream last night, and woke up smiling. There was this dog, some kind of terrier with the loveliest cream-colored, light brown-spotted, short-haired coat, and big, soulful eyes framed in long golden lashes. She also had lips like a human being, the sweetest little rosebud lips, which amused me and the kids to no end. We kept asking her for a kiss, and she’d pucker up and plant one on us, and it wasn’t icky or gross in the least. Very dry, no dog breath.

I want a dog like that.

So I told my boy about the dream this morning and he said, “Awww, Mommy! That was my dream! You took my dream!” I assured him that I would give back the dream at precisely eight o’clock tonight. And he replied, “Okaaay. But, Mommy, please don't ever steal my dreams again.”

Pretty damn deep, that statement.

LATE, BREAKING ADDENDUM!!!! Go forth and drool over the delicious new human born on March 18 to the wonderful Cassandra from Rantings of a Stay-At-Home Mom! MAdonn', get a look at that hair, will ya? ***squeal***

Confucius Say “One Who Drinks and Writes Will Suffer Great Humiliation”

Earlier this week, while enjoying my afternoon beer break, I decided to visit one of my favorite writer hangouts, Zoetrope Virtual Studios. I haven’t been active there in over a year and a half, but I still lurk in some of the private offices, occasionally post on the main discussion boards -- but only, unfortunately, when I’ve had a bit of booze. I attribute this to my guilt and frustration over not being productive, fiction-wise.

So I go to Zoe and discover that I’ve been invited to a new office, and upon checking it out, find that it seems to be a fun place to set my beer, so to speak. I see that there are over seven hundred writers that are members of this office, and that the host has a wonderful sense of humor, which she proves by posting random computer-generated topics with which we writers can do what we please. Some write poems, some flash fiction, some pithy comments -- everything goes here. I’m intrigued. Perhaps more than I should be after three or four beers.

One of the topics of the day is “Lionesses Have No Manes -- How Do They Know When They've Grown Up?” Well, goodness, I can do this! What a great way to introduce myself to the group! I’ll post a humorous poem, by golly, and everyone will laugh and laugh and love Ms. Lori to the point of adoration. I will be the Queen Clown of this office! The slightly less depressing Sylvia Plath! The Kathy Griffin of letters!

I’m so excited, my fingers can hardly keep up with my deluded brain. And this is what I wrote (keep in mind that I honestly thought this was a shining example of poetic brilliance):

Adult Lionesses Have Hairy Vulvas

As a little girl-cub on the wild, wild plains
I often envied my older brothers' manes
And dreamed of the day I would get mine
From dark midnight to the morning sunshine
But when Mother explained that wasn't to be
That my head would be bald for eternity
I wept with such fervor, but it did no good
And vowed right then not to embrace womanhood
Then one day, out of the blue
I noticed a hair -- not only one, but two!
As each day progressed, more hairs did appear
And soon realized I had nothing to fear
For I am beautiful with this wooly patch
That covers my nether regions, belly to snatch

As you can see, this is not a shining example of anything but the work of a fey drunkard, yet when I hit “post,” I was confident that this quite possibly was among the best I’d ever written.

But see, I only had four beers in the fridge, so my delusion sadly turned to realization about five, six hours after my literary assault, which was when I checked back in the office to reread my masterpiece.

And then I repeatedly punched myself in the goiter.

I Married Banjo Boy

Okay, Lar, even though you don’t read my blog, other people we know do, and as promised, I am going to humiliate you by writing about your latest antics.

I warned you. I did. But you chose to ignore my warnings in favor of acting the annoying idiot and disturbing my American Idol experience.

Marc, make sure you razz Lar’s ass about what I am about to describe. And be brutal, unrelenting, because lord knows he deserves every single moment.

To begin, I would like to say that when I first became acquainted with Lar, then dated and eventually married him, he seemed the perfect man. He was handsome, athletic, a bit standoffish (which I adore), business-minded, talented, very much the strong, silent type. He did make me laugh, but it was with his wonderfully dark, sarcastic commentary on people and the asinine situations they find themselves in, politics, relatives. Just dripping with sarcasm, and I appreciated that. As the years passed, however, I noticed a subtle change, a slow metamorphosis that crept around the edges, but I ignored it all, chalked it up to stress, exhaustion -- until the year 2004, when the truth of Lar’s monstrous identity hit me with such surprise and force, I felt as if I’d been hit by a cement mixer. I was shocked, still am. Yet I continued to love him, tolerated the squinty eyes, the grotesque way his lips stretch across his deformed face, his tongue lolling out the side of his twisted mouth...And the voice, dear god, the voice. That was especially difficult to overlook, the exaggerated southern twang, the screeching nonsense that echoed throughout the night, kept me awake, induced nightmares...

This is what Lar has become:











Those of you who are familiar with the movie “Deliverance” understand how frightening Banjo Boy is, how chilling his smile, how evil his eyes. Banjo Boy, to me at least, rivals his fellow hill people in the EWWWW! department, not because he’s perverted and likes to make city folk squeal like pigs, as his comrades do, but because of his abnormally hideous manikin-like face. Sure, he plays a mean banjo, but really now, is that even right? Freaks like that should be covered with blankets and hidden in closets, not seen in public pickin’ and grinnin’. Wrong, so very wrong. And I am married, if not to Banjo Boy himself, then to his doppelganger.

Last night was the worst manifestation of Lar’s Banjo Boyism to date. Wouldn’t stop pickin’ and grinnin’, wouldn’t shut up with his Banjo Boy babble, all nonsensical twaddle wrapped up in awful southern accent and jerking facial movements, wouldn’t leave me or my daughter Sarah alone, kept trying to wrestle with us, all the while hooting and hollering and embarrassing himself like never before. Banjo Boy blatantly disregarded my polite requests to be quiet, and in fact became even more annoying, if you can imagine. The angrier I became, the naughtier Banjo Boy, until it culminated to the most disgusting, abhorrent, horrific and unnatural display of perversion ever witnessed by mortal eyes. After he’d driven our daughter from the room, I screamed at him to cease and desist (Taylor was about to perform), Banjo Boy got up on his knees, whipped his shirt off, and...

Hang on...Need a minute to compose myself...

All right. I’m okay. I’m okay...It’s only a memory...Only a memory...

He...He whipped his shirt off and began to...Fondle his own nipples.

It was awful. Never have I hated him more than at that very moment. I yelled, I punched (and hurt my hand), I threatened to tell the world about his behavior, but he persisted, just kept on grinning and hooting and assaulting me with his nipple-fondling until the end of Taylor‘s performance. And then I killed him. I killed Banjo Boy.

And I do not regret it one bit.

For Myself, Alice, and Anyone Else Who Believes in Mutual Respect

Decorum.

I’m a big believer in it. I believe that you should treat others the way you would want to be treated. Decorum may sound stodgy, something employed in “polite society,” a noun evoking images of gray-haired old ladies pursing their lips, peering over their bifocals, and tsking at the crass, the unconventional, the inappropriate -- but it is so much more. Decorum is and should be something we all use every day, not just when we feel like it, when we are in an especially “giving” mood, when the world seems rosy and our fellow man steps up to the plate for once and makes us proud to be a part of the human race. Allowing dignity to others, when deserved, is, in my opinion, an action requiring little effort; and if someone has difficulty enabling their decorum switch, there is nobody but themselves to blame if they feel they are misunderstood, ignored, disrespected. As the oft repeated saying goes. you must give respect in order to receive respect. And many times, those who have difficulty turning on that switch are blind to the decorum shown to them, are unable to experience true respect -- unable to receive it gracefully -- because it is a wholly unfamiliar concept, be it from a lifetime of hardships, and their lack of decorum is a protective measure, or they are just downright selfish, cruel misanthropists.

I bring up this subject because I am continually aghast at the lack of decorum shown not only by strangers I’ve come in contact with -- which, by the way, can easily be forgotten; turn the other cheek and all that -- but by friends and acquaintances. Not so easy to turn that damn cheek when personal relationships are involved. It’s near impossible for those of us who hold decorum in high esteem to confront someone who has hurt us with their lack thereof. It pains us to even imagine making another soul feel shamed, bad about his/herself in any way, shape or form. If you feel as I do, even in the slightest, you’ll understand what I mean when I say that it is a real, physical ache, a whole-body tremor of mixed feelings involving embarrassment, sympathy, anger, sadness, self-doubt, bewilderment…I hope you get my drift here. I’m no wimp when it comes to standing up for myself or confronting injustice, but regarding even the gentlest of finger-wagging directed at the thoughtless among us, I become squeamish. I tend to slough off negative or insulting comments by those I care about way too often. Why? Decorum, that’s why. I’m chock full of decorum, ask anybody who knows me.

I have many faults, many eccentricities and shortcomings, but my high level of decorum is one thing I love about myself. I can be terribly blunt if asked for my opinion, but the bluntness is coated with truth, respect, caring -- I reserve less decorous behavior for situations in which my honest, respectful statements are ignored or ridiculed. Honesty is key, to my heart, to societal relations. One can be blunt, should be blunt, and not beat around the bush of obfuscation for the sake of saving face. In the long run, that only causes misunderstandings and resentment -- in both parties. Just look at what the absence of decorum coupled with untruths has done to America in only five short years.

I do not tolerate inequity, harmful actions or out and out rude behavior, and have no problem reprimanding the offender. It is the subtle jabs that make me want to run and hide, the backhanded compliments, the bold disregard for others’ feelings swaddled in faux-honesty, contempt disguised as strength, the unkind commentary masked as Truth, when in reality is nothing short of base behavior by egotistical, jealous, ignorant people whose goal is to flay another’s dignity to shreds in order to hoist themselves to a superior position.

That subtlety, like a garter snake in the grass, is hard to pinpoint, thus hard to root out and kill by confrontation. The colors are muted together, the snake stealthy, quick, and if one tries to catch the snake, the subtle contemptuous remarks, one finds that it easily becomes lost if it isn't carefully tracked. But you know it’s there just the same, because you saw it, felt it, to the center of your soul. Confronting the offender with that subtle, sneaky snake usually only winds up with you appearing the accusatory fool. Where is the proof? Where is the tangible evidence? You know it’s there, the offender certainly knows it’s there, but if it’s hiding in the grass, invisible to the naked eye, well then, it doesn’t really exist, despite the bites on your ankles. So you take the bites. I take the bites, for the sake of decorum.

Word to the indecorous: I've got a few snakes of my own, and if provoked, they can be extremely nasty indeed. You don't want me to open that den, because I guarantee they will eat you alive. With ferocious decorum, of course.

A Poem by Livia Soprano (Tony's Late Mother)

I Roll in My Grave

by Livia Soprano

I worry about you, dear
The way your breath comes in difficult gasps
While you eat that friggin’ sushi
And capicole
And veal parmesan
And rigatoni
And all of that bread
And the cannoli
And the putana du jour

MA-dawn, and when you jerk across the floor
In the morning, hair askew, belly trembling
Like a gigantic Baby Huey
I think, minchia! What the hell
Is up with that waddle? Stunada!
Friggin’ mook
What? You want you should die? Leave your business
To Chris? The stugats! Friggin’ dope fiend
Capo Bastone, my ass
More like Pezzo di Merda

So lay off the linguini, the mounds of
Bracciole, gnocchi and wine
And take Carmela on a nice, long walk
Three times a week, more if you can
And maybe there’ll be a little less boom
In your fuckin’ bada bing

Okay, I'm done

Glossary:

Putana: Whore
MA-dawn (Madonn‘):: Madonna, Mother of Christ, similar to exclaiming “oh, my God”
Minchia: Penis, used as curse or exclamation of surprise
Stunada: Stupid, insane
Mook: Idiot
Stugats: Stupid Dick
Capo Bastone: Underboss
Pezzo di Merda: Piece of shit