Jesus Juice

It's no secret that I'm socially stunted. I like company, but the effort of interacting especially with other parents I don't particularly know scares the crap out of me. The occasions most always leave me feeling exposed and vulnerable and in need of cover. Whatever. We all have our issues.

Last night Cassidy's class had a BBQ at one of the children's homes. I dreaded this most of the day and made up various scenarios in which I could avoid the dinner and hide in my room where I could talk to my hands and pretend they were actual people. Unfortunately most of my visions involved the emergency room or me quietly sneaking away to the desert, neither option had good outcomes because the ER would involve blood and bills and the desert required packing and sleeping in the sand. So the end of the day came, I collected Devon from a play date and off we went, Devon covered in playground dirt and me completely unmedicated in any form.

Here I'm going to mention that Catholic school was not always Cass' academic path. When she was younger both Cass and Loren attended a Waldorf school. It was lovely, time intensive and social occasions were rather strict, by this I mean the menus were exclusively, militantly organic and there was no alcohol at them.

When I walked into the house last night I was expecting something along the same lines and dreading it because I don't know any of the parents of Cassidy's peers. In fact I've made no effort whatsoever to know them and I was unmedicated, i.e, no Ativan because for some reason I'm trying to experience life without it and get a grip on my anxieties. As I walked up the sidewalk I saw that most of the other eight sets of married parents were carrying totes filled with wine bottles and six packs of micro brews. Huh. When I arrived in the kitchen the first thing the hostess did was stick a wine glass in my hand and offer me white or red, or something harder if I so desired. She saw me hesitate and said, "You're new here, not to worry. Enjoy!" Later as we sat around the table for chat and chew I told The Other Moms my earlier exposure to Waldorf dinners, their mouths fell open and they shook their heads in horror. One of them said, "Honey, we're Catholic. Wine is how we roll." I wanted to reply, "Praise Jesus! I am home!" Thinking better of it I raised my glass for a toast. I'm not sure I'll ever be a team player in terms of TOM's, but I might be able to hang with this crowd if it involves wine.

Striaght to hell

A couple of days ago I tried to take the high road regarding my feelings about my ex-in-laws. Well, perhaps not so high because were I to be truly gracious or noble about the whole thing I would just shut the hell up and turn the other cheek. Today I’m not feeling either of those, in fact my if I possessed the energy I would muster up something of a rage at the pair of them.

Yesterday Matt returned to Provo for what he has assured me will be the last extended stay with his parents. On May 9, Jen will be flying back to Missouri with both parents and then helping them to get situated in an assisted living facility. She clearly is footing the noble shoe in this case and to her I give a salute. Me? I can’t wait for them to board that plane and go two states away because I’m a bitch that way.

I’d be happy to leave it at that were it not for the fact that this last stint is simply so hard on all of us. Last night I picked Cass up from a movie and sensed some teen angst coming off her. When prodded she burst into tears, real tears not the drama ones she sometimes uses to get something shiny.

The tears escalated to sobs, in between which she said: “Mommy, I’m so worried about Dad.”

Me: I know babe. Me too.

Cass: No. You don’t understand. I’m so afraid he’ll die. He had that stroke and he’s so tired from going to Utah and they don’t understand that. They’re going to use him all up and he could die any day.

These are the exact same thoughts I’ve had rattling around in my brain for the past few months. I was startled by our similar thoughts and heartbroken that under her tough shell of badassedness Cassidy has been harboring this fear.

Me: Honey, this is his last trip. You’re right, he is super tired and that is why he took the train out this time. He is really trying to take care of himself.

Cass: Yes, but if he dies our family will be more broken and then you’ll get depressed again and I might lose you too. Then Mia will raise us and Devon will end up freakier than ever.

Here I paused because as a parent it is always fascinating to hear just how much your children understand what’s happening underneath all the day to day grind. And which depression was she thinking about? The one after Devon was born? After my dad died?

As if reading my mind she said: The time when you went to bed for a year after Pop died. That was awful.

Me: Cass, I can’t promise you anything I can’t deliver, but here are my hopes…. Your dad is coming home in about two weeks. Then he will be going to Denver to meet with specialists about his condition. He has being seeing doctors here when he is home, but we’re going to get an in depth look at his issues. Then we are going to work on all of us moving in together in the next few months. Yes, our family is somewhat broken but we are working on that as well. This too shall pass. As for me getting blue again, I work on that everyday and I’ll try to prevent us from ever having that happen again in the way it did.

I can deal with many things but nobody puts my baby in a corner. This Utah thing has gone on long enough and the folks at the other end of it are just too damn self-absorbed to understand the ramifications of their demands. My kids are a mess. I'm worn out -seriously worn out, not just bitching worn out. Yes, I totally get a man has cancer and a woman is suffering from dementia but neither of them are doing it with any grace or flair and it's pissing me off. There you go, now my ticket to hell is a gaurantee.

My head smells like a hippie's ass. And not in a good way either.

Early onset grayness runs deep on my mother's side of the family. My uncle Mark was entirely white by the time he was 27, my mother was gray by 30. For my uncle it was the stunning sort of silver beauty only men seem to get with gray hair, as a small girl in the 70's I remember his amazing afro coupled with piercing blue eyes. I also recall a large assortment of women in his company. My mother took the route of frosting, dying and tinting her hair until the late 90's when she let it go and it became a gorgeous silver bob that still sits upon her head today.

I was sitting in a figure drawing class when I got my first gray hair. I was 18 and more than horrified to realize I was a recipient of the family curse. Were I blonde it might not be so bad, but dark haired and young it was not a welcome find for me. Since then I have been coloring my hair on a far too regular basis, and lately it's been taking a toll on my hair. In all fairness I have to say it isn't just the harsh store bought hair coloring kits, after Devon was born I had a tubal ligation -because I believed my contribution of three spawn to this earth was more than sufficient, if not overly so. Since that procedure my body has kicked into to peri-menopause and things just aren't quite the same. First there was that wheat thing where I itched for two years straight. There has been weight gain. And my skin and hair are aging at an alarming rate. Not really a great plate of fun but at least I can't get knocked up ever again. So suffice it to say my hair has been an issue for me lately, among so many issues....

I have contemplated whacking it all off, sort of a la angry, power woman pixie style, I totally would if I had the face to carry it off. I'd pretty much buzz it, stop coloring it and get a diamond stud for my nose. Sadly that sort of carefree look isn't for me. Though perhaps if I were to get a full facial reconstruction....probably not practical. So I have recently been considering henna. Why not? It's natural, seems harmless enough.

Yesterday I went to Vitamin Cottage, picked out a couple of brownish/reddish packets and took them home. After I put Devon to bed I figured I'd mix them up, slap the color on and let nature's goodness pamper me with the color my hair ought to be rather than the old lady hag color it wants to be. Not to be. First there is boiling of water to be done, though NOT in a metal container, then the goop is mixed and it has to cure for up to three hours. The mixture stank like a rank combo of skunk and ass, basic hippie scent if one were to ask me. After an hour I started putting the stuff in my hair, it was both the color and consistency of green baby poo. I was super tired at this point so I gloved up and started coating my head in liquid ass. SO GROSS. Really. Occasionally some would fall on the floor and I had flashbacks to my children potty training and not quite making it to the toilet. After an hour of having ten pounds of clay on my head and heating it every five minutes or so I stepped into the shower to rinse it out. Again, not so simple. It had hardened in some places, flaking off in big gritty poo chunks.

By the time I was finished I was out of energy and truly considering shaving the whole damn mess. Instead I wrapped my head in a towel and went to say goodnight to Cassidy. As I tucked her in she wrinkled her pretty nose and said, "Ew, Mommy, your head smells like ass." Yes, she's my tender one.

This morning things are better. My head still stinks but the color isn't too bizarre. We'll just have to see if it holds for longer than the store bought dyes. If so I might be able to endure a bit off hippie stank every six weeks in return for non-hag hair.

Blue

I'm just going to preface this with the fact that I know I'm fairly vile, and if such a place exists I will be heading straight to hell as soon as my cells stop moving. It's okay, I'm cool with it. And yes, I know bashing on a dying man is pretty much a no-no, but I'll try to be soft about it.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There's a song by the Fine Young Cannibals containing some lyrics that go something like this: Blah, blah and I'm mad about that. Another blah, blah, and I'm mad about that. If memory serves the singer is pretty much just blowing off steam about all the things that piss him off on a daily basis. Sometimes when I'm feeling particularly bratty I'll start singing that song in my head but add things like: My panties don't fit and I'm mad about that. I hate sitting in my cubicle and I'm mad about that, too.

Lately I find myself singing this song when I think about my ex-in-laws. (This is where my horrid nature comes in to the equation.) There are so many directions to go here, but I'll stick with the selfish one and make it all about me. I know there are some people who love their in-laws, good for you and congratulations you are worthy individuals. In the best of times I was never open-my-heart close to Pat and Tom, but we were always civil, well at least until I somehow got on Pat's Permanent Shit List and when she occasionally saw me there were always comments about the unfortunate length of my poofy hair or my weight gain. Whatever, I didn't want to grow up to be her so I figured I would mostly ignore it and strive to not be her. I could also go on about my almost phobic aversion to her, but I won't, I'll save that bitch card in my pocket for later.

So anyway, my frustration comes into play somewhere around here: Matt and I are getting back on track, we're excited about the future, a household consolidation, etc. All super good stuff in my book. But. Dude keeps getting uprooted every few weeks because he has to go back to Utah to care for his dad and babysit the train wreck that unfolds on a daily basis at Pat's nursing home. I'm not saying I'm not grateful for the few weeks he is home because that means Jen is out in Utah, away from her kids and man doing the same. For the record Jen has been Queen Conductor of the Pat Train for the past few weeks and her stint at her own home is beyond warranted.

So I should be happy? Yes. And mostly I am, but I'm really quite pissed in some ways. One, the little detail of that stroke Matt had last November. One doesn't usually just willy nilly have a stroke at 39, get diagnosed with a degenerative vascular disorder and then bounce right back into an active lifestyle. There are appointments with specialists and oodles of follow up care. That should be understood, however when your doctors are in Denver and you are 500 miles away in Utah the care doesn't happen, especially when the person you are caring for doesn't seem to grasp this -or in my Book of Bitch interpretation-  care. Again, my selfishness jumps back in because if Matt's own health is somewhat precarious and his father uses up all this time that should obviously be spent with me? I'm gonna be pissed.

Two. The kids miss their dad. Devon's little heart breaks every time his dad leaves town. He curls up in my bed with me at night and we count the days until his father will be back. When Matt does come back to town Devon spends nearly every moment he can with his dad. The older two miss Matt as well, they just lack the pitiful drama of Dev.

Three. I have three children, none of them drive, we live in a rural area, gas is crazy expensive right now. Just the logistics of transporting them all, even with my mother, is such a challenge. It's hard for me to even get 40 hours in a week at work because of the schedules.

There is more. I could get personal thereby ensuring my place in hell will not be a glamorous one, but I'll try to keep this clean. However,  I will say this, if our new Glee karaoke had the FYC's Blue on it I'd totally have fantasies of driving out to Utah, standing in the ex-in-law's living room and belting out a few lines. They wouldn't get it but it sounds fully therapeutic.

Sweet, Sweet Divine Thing

My Dearest Red,

Lordy, lordy but today you are 14! Fourteen. Four plus ten. Obviously I am somewhat flummoxed by this fact. Truly,  it seems as recently as yesterday I was enduring the end of my pregnancy with you, trying to keep what little sanity I had, and getting ready to have a baby girl. It feels nearly impossible all this time has flown by and now you are taller than me. In fact you are many things -er than me: smarter, cleverer, patienter, slyer, prettier....I know not all of those are real words, but they are all true.

I know lately things have been challenging for you. Eighth grade is not the kindest of years and the children not always at their top form. You , being tall, willowy thin and graced with deep red hair, strong brown eyes and freckles don't look like most of the girls your age. I get it that at this age those attributes might not seem as such, but one day in the not too distant future you are going to wake up and be the most beautiful of swans the earth has witnessed in recent history. For me you always have been that swan, for you to see her it might take some time. My hope for you is that you understand this and can ride out these years where sometimes boys are mean and have nothing better to offer than their observations of your unusual hair color. And sometimes girls are mean just to be mean. But it will pass, I promise you.

This has been a challenging year for our family. Your father's stroke was such a shock. Then having him be gone for the last four months in Utah has been a strain. I know the drama of your older brother getting through his last year of high school is sometimes draining. Then there is day to day life with your little brother. Not to mention the fact that you were really quite ill most of the winter. Yet you have sucked up your guts and plundered on, getting stellar grades, kicking some serious butt on the soccer field and maintaining your amazing sense of humor.

Cass, you are my only girl, the sandwich child in between two needy boys. You're my self-sufficient one and so I sometimes over look your needs in order to put out fires with your brothers. I do this because I know you're taking care of business, it's not fair to you but sometimes that's just how it works. I'm sorry. I'll try to be more focused.

I love the times we share together, especially when it's just the two of us. Your sly observations never cease to crack me up, you are so much like your father this way. Your verbal combat abilities are also stunning, never is there a dull moment with you.

Red Sister, I love the child you were, the young lady you are evolving into and the woman I can see one day becoming. You are and will continue to be strong, smart, kind, gracious, funny, humble and absolutely beautiful inside and out. I can't wait to see it all unfold for you.

I think I can speak for your father here when I say we are so blessed to have you in our lives. You are Briar Rose, Red Sister, Cassula, Fifi. You are my Cassidy Jane and truly the most divine creature I have ever met. Happy birthday, my love. Go forth and kick ass today just as you have done every single other day of your life, it is your destiny.

I love you  ~Mom

A secret on Thursday

I have a secret love, almost fetish, for aprons. I don't own a single one, usually when I cook I just tuck an old washcloth in the waist of my pants and call it good. But from time to time when I need a little pick me up I'll go on Etsy and ogle the aprons.

This following one is very sexy in an I Love Lucy/Marilyn way.

This one is beyond cutey fab! The polka dots make me feel bubbly.

I love the functionality of this half apron, plus the retro greens are uber hip.

Okay then, I feel much better now. Deep in my psyche I now believe I have ordered all of these and they will be arriving on my doorstep early next week. I didn't and they won't, but a girl can dream. And in those dreams I don one of the above, whip up gluten-free appetizers for my arriving guests who are as equally easy-breezy in their attire as I am. We sip bubbly drinks, snack on finger foods and everybody admires my amazing domestic style and skilzzz. I'm very grounded, thank you.

Can I just bitch about Colorado's lack of spring ambiance?

Spring in the Colorado Rockies is nothing if not completely un-fucking-predictable. It's a bi-polar buffet of snow, rain, wind, clouds, sun and mud. By far, spring here is my least favorite time of year. It's not just because I'm ready to chuck everybody's unmatching socks in the trash and go barefoot for the summer, well only partly. It has much more to do with my head and the migraines that come with INSANE weather patterns.

The barometric pressure changes every five minutes around here. The wind stirs up the barn owls and then they come and stomp on my roof which keeps me awake at night. The pressure and lack of sleep add to the already fragile environment inside my head. Then? BOOM! Migraines.

Today I've managed to lose my sight -twice. Had my right arm go numb, at least I knew it wasn't a heart attack since it wasn't on the left side. And I lost my breakfast in the office bathroom in a loud and not so graceful way. I feel as though I've been turned inside out and wrung from side to side. Someday I'm going to move to the equator where I hope there will be a glorious equilibrium and I never have to wear socks again, dammit.

It's hard to be me today

Spring in the Colorado rockies is probably the most brutal season of all. Every year I hope the transition between snow and warmth will be a short and seamless one and every year I am smacked down by April and most of May. One day there might be sun and the next eight inches of heavy snow covers the budding trees. Right now things are still mostly brown and soggy while the snow retreats, not a visual treat. Needless to say I'm feeling rather blue about it today, that and I'm still on the Lenten no caffeine wagon.

The clip below is from last fall when Loren got his new 7D camera. I watched it this morning to remind myself that color and light will return and with it happy moments. And, yes, the 40 days will be up and on Easter morning the Easter Bunny will be serving me a vanilla latte followed by a mimosa.



First 7D edit. from aidan sheahan on Vimeo.

Nothing is quite like a Southern bred mother-in-law

Most days I find it super hard to be me. There is the maintenance involved to deal with my ever multiplying phobias, and the knowledge that even if I think I'm coping with them I'll probably end up with some bizarre medical affliction as a result. It's really quite exhausting. One of the only people I've ever met who is as flummoxed by just being as I am is my dear friend Kelly Lynne. Of course she made her life a gazillion times more difficult by leaving the liberal hot bed of the Colorado mountains and transplanting herself into the Deep South where rules run deep and mother-in-laws are a breed crazy like no other. My daily early morning routine is to lie in bed for a few minutes and check the email on my phone, this morning the snippet from below awaited me. It made me giggle and want to go to the bathroom.


Lord, please oh please help me navigate the murky underworld of Southern Bridal Shower Etiquette. And please remind me, in the future, that sneakers are not proper foot attire for such an event. Even for one held immediately after work, by your co-workers, at a job for which you wear sneakers frequently. Especially when your MIL and her very own SIL (a woman she detests and lives in competition with) are invited. Lord, I know this is my second marriage, that I am 42, and that I have a 4 year old with the man to whom I am betrothed, and Lord, I know that totally labels me a 'tart' (but seriously: what a fun word!! worth the label, IMHO.) And, Lord, I know that my MIL dies a thousand deaths every time she is reminded of the fact that every. single. person. in. this. town. knows. we. are. not. already. married. But I beg of you that a public party (or you know, six or eight of them) dedicated to this single fact will not kill her dead until after the wedding. Because, really, a death in the immediate family within a month or two of the wedding would darken the doorstep of our marital bliss, and I have already paid for the honeymoon. And Lord, thank you so much for reminding such a high percentage of the shower attendees that we have plenty of cloth napkins, scented candles, prepackaged waffle mix and casserole dishes, and not nearly enough of (whispered desperately at the start of the shower gift opening) "don't display the bottle part of my gift!!!"s. We like those.


And God, an issue not as important as the impending nuptials and all the chaos that surrounds that, I would like to discuss a couple of minor issues in relation to the Episcopal Choir I recently joined: Look, the other Alto and I (We are Episcopalians, and therefore a single step away from HELL in this town.. so our congregation is small, as is our choir) are not cradle Episcopalians and are not even from the South. Therefore we cannot sight read music, we cannot understand the choir director when he speaks, and for the most part, we cannot sing. So really, just, I don't know, just do something. Anything. While I am not willing to sacrifice anything to this request, the other alto might be. She is from California. She has practice in the sacrifice arena.

Namaste, bitch

I like organic foods and natural fibers but I would never go so far as to classify myself as crunchy or hippie. Yes, I'm a hopeless tree hugger and would like to save all the sea mammals from nets and clubs, but it's the hippie look and smell I can't quite grasp. Plus, I have the kind of ankles that look so much better with a heel, flats just don't work for me. That said, I love yoga. Love, love, love it.

For a number of years I was singlemindedly a Bikram follower. For a number of reasons the simplicity and repetition of the classes soothed my soul. Plus, that co-dependent part of me always seeking the forever elusive perfection element struck a chord with me. Bikram's is slightly abusive in condescending way, sort of like a favorite family priest, I can fully identify with that.

Right now I don't have it in me to do Bikram's yoga. For one thing a 90 minute class requires a total of about 2 1/2 hours in terms of cleaning up from the sweat, etc and that sort of time isn't a luxury I have right now. So I've defected to a different yoga studio where the rooms are not heated to 105 degrees and the teachers are so sweet I sometimes think about giving them a lick just to see if they even taste like sugar, or in their case agave nectar. At this studio we get all sorts of accessories for every class: wooden blocks, straps, blankets, even lavender scented eye pillows. If we can't keep our balance we can use the walls for support. At the end of most classes the teacher goes around and gives us a little back rub. It's pretty much a 90 minute scoop of affirmation, not bad for those of us who incessantly seek approval.

So it's a lovely studio, beautiful environment, teachers with fabulously peaceful yoga names. But. Last night when I went to class there was a serene barefoot man on one side of the class playing some sort of funky guitar. I put my yoga mat down, got out the provided toys and sat down to get a grip when he started playing his music, it sounded something like this:  Ooooooooom, numa-numa-numaaa gotta paaaarrttttttaaayyyy.... Looking around I realized I was the only one who understood this guy was saying we needed to party. What the fuck? Really? Because I was there to find some inner peace, not throw back a shot and whoop it up. But no, music fellow was over there, eyes closed, and crooning crazy yoga words. Then he would mix his voice into his electronic thing and several of his voices would sing out: Ooooooooom, numa-numa-numaaa gotta paaaarrttttttttaaaayyyy....

I stifled a few giggles but got on with class until about an hour into it. Then groovy dude started getting a bit louder and on top of his other party bit he starting randomly tossing out in a breathless Dave Mathews voice: BREATHE. Or LET GO. Or my favorite: FLOW LOKE A RIVERRRRRR. ECHO LIKE THE MISSSSSSST. Some seriously funky shit. During the final cevasana and lavender eye pillow stint I couldn't help but let a few quiet giggles escape. After class we all bowed, said our namastes and then everybody else went over to thank groovy guitar dude. In complete seriousness they were all so touched by his bizarre musical contribution and he was equally giddy over our yoga poses.

I don't get it. Maybe I'm not evolved enough. I like to think my sense of humor is such that a grown man making up yoga words to electronic music merits a chuckle or two. Hopefully the rest of the students and teacher aren't on to me.

These small hours

As a baby, and well into childhood, Cassidy worshiped Loren with every fiber of her being. In the beginning she would sit in her car seat or perched on a baby blanket watching his every move with her dark intense eyes. One time when she she was particularly entranced with his activities she rocked her car seat to the point of tipping it over and clawing her way out so she could have a better view. At nine months she pulled herself up and started walking, I believe, simply to keep up with him.

Loren and Cass are nearly four years apart, a difference that lent him an aura of mystique and fascination for her but gave him an edge on her overly ambitious small self. It lasted until Lo hit high school and then he was off, gone in his own world and leaving Cass behind. Loren doesn't do anything in increments, he's either totally interested in something or absolutely not at all. As he entered puberty his social life reigned supreme and his little sister was no longer even on the radar.

Last night was a rare one, Devon was at Matt's for the night and I had the older kids all to myself. It was a fabulous arrangement since Devon knows his dad will only be here for a few more days before again heading out to Utah and he wants only to be with his father right now.

Loren, Cass and I chose a dinner we knew we would all eat, picked out a movie and went home. Loren had received a bunch of new camera toys in the mail yesterday and he opened them while Cass hung out with me and I cooked dinner. The three of us then sat on the kitchen island and ate food as it came out of the oven. Later we all snuggled into my bed and watched Due Date. We laughed, joked, talked about life pre-Devon, discussed the upcoming busy weeks and just relaxed.

I love it when I have all my chicks in one nest but I also love these quiet times when I can focus on Loren and Cassidy. Lo will be graduating high school in seven weeks. At the end of June he will turn 18. He's chosen to take at least one year off before pursuing film school, but is still unsure of what next year will bring in terms of concrete plans. Right now I feel what we have is a known, the unknown will soon arrive. These small moments are beyond precious for me and I am so grateful.

Starfish & coffee, maple syrup and jam

I remember when Matt and I first got married, people, who at the time I thought were super old but who were likely the age I am now, used to tell us how important it was to have "us" time. I didn't get it, thinking what did they know in their aged state. And so we rarely did anything on our own without the children. If we did get away it was usually one of us off with friends and the other at home. It obviously took its toll and things went the way they went.

With age comes some sort of wisdom, I like to believe, and so now we are taking that time and fostering something really quite fabulous. On Saturday we went to see Donovan Frankenreiter, and Matt Nanthanson  at the Wheeler. Aside from seeing Jack Johnson there is nobody I wanted to see perform more than Frankenreiter, and Matt Nathanson turned out to be obscenely sassy and fun. It was all guitars and just plain beautiful. Matt and I sat in the balcony and soaked in the music and fun of it all.

I know I am the luckiest of fools to have this chance, a do-over of sorts, and I am so grateful to whatever sort of fates that have dropped this in my lap.

His brilliance awes me

I can never get enough of Lo's work. this one was featured at the Independence Pass Foundation Film Fest at the end of March.

A little Taste.. from Loren James Creer on Vimeo.

The return of Red

Cassidy spent the last week in Las Vegas with her best friend Taylor and his mom and dad, Jennifer and Richard. I missed her. Lots. On the other hand the silence was really quite lovely. Golden if one were to be entirely honest. Yes, I know there will be no Mother of the Year for me regarding that comment. The thing about Red Sister is that she is just so encompassing. Engulfing. She's been home for two hours, an hour of that I had to lie down just to collect myself. I have to get ready for the assault that is my beautiful daughter.

Below is a poem I came across recently. It nails nearly everything about Cass. And at the end of the day, no, I simply can't imagine living without my Red.

Red is a sunset
Blazing and bright.
Red is feeling brave
With all your might.
Red is a sunburn
A spot on your nose.
Sometimes red, is a red red rose.
Red squiggles out when you cut your hand.
Red is a brick
And the sounds of a band.
Red is hotness
You get inside
When you’re embarrassed
And want to hide.
Fire-cracker, fire-engine
Fire-flicker red –
And when you’re angry
Red runs through your head.

Red is an Indian
A Valentine heart,
The trimmings on
A circus cart.
Red is a lipstick
Red is a shout
Red is a signal
That says, “Watch out!”
Red is a great big
Rubber ball.
Red is the giant-est
Colour of all.
Red is a show-off,
No doubt about it –
But can you imagine
Living without it?

The art of dating my ex-husband

My mother is inquisitive by nature, which means she's nosy but I'm being polite and phrasing it softly. Whenever there is even the teensiest strand of something secretive she is all over it like a hungry dog on a rotting carcass. This means if I have something at all personal I don't even let myself form it into words in my head lest it somehow leak out into the universe and she might smell the vulnerability of my soul.

Lately I have something of a golden nugget in terms of juiciness that she keeps trying to get her teeth into and the fun of keeping her out tickles me to no end. She very much wants to know just what it is I'm doing with my ex-husband. Her latest attempt went something like this:

Her: So, you know when I'm out and about this weekend people will likely ask questions about your D Status.

(This is because we have friends coming into town and she is seeing them all at a party Saturday night. A party I won't be attending because I'm going to a concert with the above mentioned man.)

Me: D Status? What's that? Death? I'm alive. Divorce? Been there for about 8 years now. Dusty? Well,, I'm not exactly shiny...

Her: Dating. Duh.

Me: Oh, yes. That doesn't seem like a very interesting topic. I'm practically middle aged and really not all that glamorous. By the way, is Peg still dating that one guy? I haven't seen them together lately.

Her: I'm not sure. You know he doesn't hear so well in crowded situations.

Me: Too bad. They seem like a great pair.

Her: Yes, well. But back to you. What shall I tell people?

Me: Tell them whatever you like. I just don't think there's really anything of interest there.

Her: ........
__________________________________________

Here's the thing, Matt and I have been married, divorced, had a post-divorce child, separated and now are giving it another go. Is Elizabeth Taylor the only one who gets a stab at this sort of Jerry Springer move? I think freaking not. Further more, this time around I see no reason to discuss it with anybody other than our children. I suspect there are those who might have a comment or two regarding our reunion, but frankly I just don't give a rat's ass anymore. Life is short and depending on what you believe there is but one go around at it.