Don't bother me I'm writing

My husband complains that our children never listen. Sometimes he blames it on me, "You never make them do anything." I have a different theory. I believe our darlings are mimicking their daddy's behavior. Exhibit A: I'm in the bedroom typing. The door and windows are closed. The television is off. The heat is on. I run to the kitchen for something to drink. The trip takes no more than 30 seconds. And when I return--the the door and windows are open. The television is on. The heat is off. My husband is watching a football game. "I'm trying to get some writing done," I tell him. "Maybe you could watch the game downstairs." Silence. " I said I'm trying to get some writing done. Could you maybe watch the game downstairs?" "Huh, what?" He stares at me blankly. "The football game is distracting me. Could you please watch it downstairs." "OK." I return to my computer screen. What wa...

I'm a fairly dramatic woman with two fairly dramatic daughters; I've been waiting for, "I hate you," and, "You're the worst mom ever!" But my 9-year-old, Lily, caught me off guard a couple of weeks ago with this gem, "We used to be so close, Mommy. What happened?" I swear it all went down in slow motion--the end of everything. There was no reason to get out of bed or brush my teeth or watch TV. There was no reason to go on living. I putzed around the house aimlessly. I picked a fight with my husband. I cried all day until Lily got home from school, and I asked her what she was thinking.   She told me we drifted apart shortly after her sister was born. "Ever since Ashlyn was born I've felt this way." "Well, that was five years ago," I told her. "You don't think we've been close for five years?" She shook her head. "LILY! OH, LILY!" My heart was screaming. Ash...

I try to keep things funny, so even when I'm a Debbie Downer there's an element of comedy to it, but I swear John Steinbeck moved into my head space this week, and he's kind of a joy sucker. I've got lots of things to be grateful for: a wackadoo cast of characters who are kind enough to call me their friend, wife, mother, daughter, niece, etc. I have two cats and a guinea pig and a house and shoes and coats and food and books and a Dyson vacuum cleaner. So it's mildly embarrassing when I reach the end of my thank-you list and still feel rotten. Things go wrong sometimes. There's no rhyme or reason. They just fall apart. Is it worthy of saying "well done" when you make it through the day intact? Showered? Dressed? I pounded the crap out of my computer keyboard all week with these freakishly long fingers of mine, but nothing remotely life-affirming appeared in my word box. There were rants and screw-you manifestos; there were prayers for emp...

I thought I'd sit down really quickly and transfer my blog to a different hosting space, because I was tired of the Blogger layout--I wanted something shiny and new. I wanted something that said, "Here's a girl who knows what she's doing; here's a girl who's clever and sophisticated." I am none of those things--NONE of them. "Really quick" turned into an 18-hour disaster from which I will never ever recover--like EVER. There were robots in my room. They crawled out of my computer to "guide" me through the setup process for my new blog space. "We're helping hands," they told me. "Please remain calm while we help you." Zombie Robot by Scott Johnson I was prompted by a friendly pop-up window to answer a series of extremely personal questions as completely and honestly as possible (* requires an answer): 1. Full name * 2. Age * 3. Gender * 4. Sexual preference * 5. Marital status * 6. Number of par...

I had some really fantastic crap to write about today, but it got a little rowdy here this afternoon, and I went completely off the rails. My 9-year-old daughter, Lily, is learning the violin; her best friend, who comes home with her after school, is learning the viola; and one of the neighbor boys is learning the trumpet. All three of them were in my living room this afternoon practicing their instruments. AND (suspenseful music) it was totally F-ing awesome--the craziest, loudest afternoon ever. I loved it. I ended up playing my own trumpet--sorry neighbors--for three hours. My wrists hurt from holding it. My mouth hurts from blowing it--I don't care. I can still hit the notes above the ledger lines. I'm a brass goddess. BOOM! I used to play that thing out my bedroom window every day from the time I got home from school until way past my bedtime. It was the first and only thing I kicked ass at academically, and then I gave it up in high school to chase boys and ...

I woke up this morning to my youngest daughter, Ashlyn, shouting, "Mommy! Mommy! Did someone die in the bathroom?" My kids say a lot of weird things, so I wasn't alarmed, but she wouldn't shut up. "Mommy! You got to see this. I'm serious. You really got to see this. Someone died in the bathroom, Mommy." It was 8 a.m., and I knew I should get up, but I didn't want to. The bed was comfy, and it was still quiet outside, because it's Saturday. My husband left before sunrise to go fishing, so the only schedule I had worry about was mine, and I never have a schedule. But I still had Ashlyn screaming at me that someone died in the bathroom. I jumped out of bed angrily and stomped the six-or-so steps to the master bathroom. Ashlyn was correct. There appeared to be a crime scene in my powder room. There was a zigzag trail of bloody footprints between the vanity and the shower. There was blood spatter on the mirror and down the side of the t...

There's this line in the beginning of Say Anything that always plays in my head when I experience a game-changing setback. Corey Flood, who's recently attempted suicide over some douche bag, says, "So I'm single now, and everything's changed. I hate it." The cadence and the absolute surrender to a crappy situation resonate with me. It's customizable too, just replace the word "single."  In my present state of affairs the word is "jobless." "I'm jobless now, and everything's changed. I hate it." Employment to my disorderly brain is that immobile point dancers focus on when they're spinning. It keeps me from falling on my face, or doing anything crazy like writing a book, or emailing people to tell them what I really think about them. It seemed like a good time to resurrect my blog, although I lay awake most of last night worrying I won't have anything to write about the day after tomorrow or th...

Some people go on vacation to vegetate -- to chill the hell out. I go on vacation to write, but it usually happens that other things get in the way like VACATION and children and "knock, knock -- housekeeping." This time was different. I went to Hawaii for a week with my dad -- no kids, no husband -- just me, dad, my computer and a couple of spiral notebooks. It was hard at first to get my bearings. Until a week ago it had been something like 41,200 minutes since my last writing moment, one of those heaven-sent minutes in which I happen to be sitting at my computer, or I have a pen and something to scribble on -- my skin for instance, because I haven't carried a notepad around since I stopped reporting the news (insert frowny face here), and even then I rarely had a notepad when I needed one -- I took notes on napkins and empty cigarette boxes. ENOUGH rambling -- I havent't written much since I got promoted to leader of   I think I signed a contract that p...

Listening to the radio on my way to work this morning I learned that Internet Use Addiction was recently added to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Health Disorders, which got me thinking -- perhaps there's a writing addiction disorder. If the clinical definition of addiction is any compulsive behavior that interferes with your life and relationships -- I'm definitely an addict.  It's a wonderful scapegoat -- addiction.  When I finally lose it and shave my head and burn down my house and crash my car into the gun range clubhouse, I can blame it on my writing addiction -- "I'm sorry officers. I was suffering from writing withdrawals. It's a real thing -- look it up in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Health Disorders." I feel like a fraud these days calling myself a "writer." I don't write; I think about it all day while I'm busy with other crap, and when I finally get home and lock myself away ...

Buck Henry and his posse of toothless, pickup-driving hillbillies are down at the gun range again blowing sh*t up and polluting my writing space with their god dammed racket. I'm one POP away from marching over there and taking them down with my husband's pink remote control airplane or maybe his potato gun.  It's 8:00 at night. I think it's quite reasonable to expect all gunfire will cease by the time some boring people go to bed.  I'm trying to concentrate here, but my train is interrupted every half second by explosions and echoes of explosions and the faint clang -- they're a mile away -- of Henry's moonshine jugs being tossed in the back of some buttworm's rusty hunting vehicle. What if I started a commune next door to the gun range? What if I blasted sitar music and tantric chanting on really BIG -- for lack of any audio words -- speakers? I know a guy who sells  patuli-scented tiki torches and sandalwood peace arches. ...

I'm like Mikey -- the kid from the Life cereal commercial, "Let's give it to Mikey. He won't like it. He hates everything." We all know that Mikey ended up liking the cereal, and I would have too if someone told me I would hate it. That's just how I roll -- stubborn and immature.  I'm rather childish about a lot of things, but someone thought it was a good idea to put me in a leadership position at work -- that's not to say I'm unqualified. I've performed very well in every job I've had since high school. It's just not something I expected -- to be a supervisor. It's exciting. It's scary. It's sad -- I wouldn't be taking this job except the person who currently fills it is running off to Hawaii for something -- let's face it -- far better than anything Seattle has to offer. It's change, and I hate it. Even when the change is something really good like a better job with more money. I'd be just as hap...

Ashlyn screamed at me the other morning, "MOMMY! You NAKED! (I was in my bathrobe.)" And Lily said, "You don't need to broadcast that for the whole entire planet." And Ashlyn said, "MOMMY! You NAKED!" And Lily said, "You're a redneck, Ashlyn." And Ashlyn said, "I not a redneck. You a redneck Bay-bo (that's Ashlyn's pet name for Lily)." It's funny listening to my children quarrel. I never had a brother or a sister to fight with, and most people upon learning this tidbit about me roll their eyes, sigh deeply and announce "Well that explains a lot." I'm loud, opinionated,  occasionally  self serving, impatient, bossy and a tiny bit aggressive -- it's got to be the Only Child Syndrome. Bleh! I am who I am -- it's only loosely related to the number of puppies my mother popped out of her womb (one). I'm colorful , because my parents are CRAZY. (They're nuttier than a couple of...

Lily tackled me on my way out the door. "Wait, Mommy!" She shouted even though she'd knocked me to the floor, and her mouth was an inch from my ear. "You can't go yet. I have to give you something" She wrapped one arm around my leg to keep me disabled; stretched her body as long as it would go without compromising her grip on my ankle; and plunged her free arm into a ratty basket that shouldn't have been on the floor in my bedroom -- that's another story -- and pulled out a tiny, brown horse. "Darla will go to work with you today," Lily said placing the horse gently in my hand. "She's a good horse. She will take care of you and keep you from getting lonely at work." I grabbed Lily's face and kissed her nose and forehead. "OH MY GOSH -- I love you SO MUCH!" I felt a little  crazy  taking a horse to work -- even a tiny horse. What if someone in the office had an allergy? What if someone complained ...

Computers suck -- they really do. They suck enormous rhinoceros balls, and I hate them. There's one thing worse than having nothing to write about. It's Having something absolutely brilliant -- so fabulous that you're pissing in your pants all day you're so excited -- and you get home, and you can't write, because your computer chooses that one day in a million to flip you the bird and take a big crap on your hopes and dreams. That's my story tonight. I ran in the house after work and headed for the bedroom to type up my masterpiece. My computer was NOT happy to see me. It wouldn't do anything that I wanted it to do. All of the USB ports were dead. I couldn't transfer my pictures from the camera. And finally after reading I-don't-know-how-many articles about Universal Serial "B"-somethings (USBs) THAT PIECE-OF-CRAP machine wouldn't even start. It gave me some bullshit message "You're computer cannot start ..." ...

My daughters' favorite word is "inappropriate." I remember the first time Lily used it -- she was 4. I'd been yelling at Jerod for letting her watch Adult Swim on Cartoon Network. The two of them were huddled on the couch watching Family Guy. Meg, the daughter, fell IN LOVE with Brian, the family dog -- he took her to prom; he dumped her; and Meg in retaliation tied him to a chair in a candlelit room and threatened to make him love her. "IN-A-PPRO-PRI-ATE, dude. So inappropriate." I changed the channel and went upstairs to change my clothes at which point an argument ensued between Lily and Jerod. Lily was yelling something about rules and "Mommy said," and Jerod was shushing her. "No DAD," Lily screamed. "Mommy said I'm not allowed to watch Family Guy. It's INAPPROPRIATE." I'd made my way downstairs by that point and was trying desperately not to laugh at the redness of Lily's face or the ...

The ground is important -- for several reasons. Among them Gravity makes no sense without it -- there's no mandate that science be logical so long as our scientists are the smartest smartypants on the planet, in which case "because I said so" is an acceptable explanation. The ground is important, because it's something to build on -- a starting point, a foundation. I respect the ground, because it has on occasion fallen out from under me, and it's rather unsettling to watch your life in free-fall mode -- to see your accomplishments disintegrate in an instant or a decade in some cases. It all depends on how fast you're falling. Most of us drop in slow motion. We'll catch a ledge or an up draft every once in a while and think "this is it!" But then we go on falling. Or do we? Is the "bottom" just a figment of our imaginations? Can we lay new ground wherever we choose? Ask Alice None of my friends growing up were impressed...

Call me SUPER Crazy Cat Lady. I rescued my beloved feline, Buddy, from -- dun dun dun -- CERTAIN DEATH this weekend. My friend's dog, "Puppy" -- a sweet-as-can-be mutt, who may or may not have a drop or two of pit bull in her -- joined us for a barbecue on Sunday. She was prancing merrily in the back yard until one of the children left the slider open. "Puppy" ran inside to scope things out, which I really wouldn't mind if Buddy tolerated dogs, but he doesn't. Buddy's hated dogs since he was a kitten and fit in the palm of my hand. I found him July 5, 1998 yowling from the bottom of a covered manhole in Bremerton, WA. Jerod and I had been fighting the night before, and I was stomping my way to the ferry terminal when I heard Buddy's scratchy voice screaming from under the ground somewhere. I squatted  over a nearby manhole and pulled on the cover until it popped loose and the weight of it threw me backwards. I poked my head in the hol...