clickmom

MAKE UP, SPRAY TANNING AND PLASTIC SURGERY

What a day!  I walked bear bait with peanut and her pooch from 7-8 this morning.  Then I cleaned for a few hours because someone was coming to see the house.  Then I went to posh club, where I extended my membership through July (and I find that comforting) since I will be coming back to clean out things, worked out with the stretcher and then I came home and cleaned out the garage, which was a taller order than any of you can imagine.  My garage?  Beyond disaster.  Really, there is a pile of wood that the previous owner left for us.  I found a box of Matt's old stuff from when he was three and we lived in Brooklyn.  I also found that my house cleaners are stashing things they don't know where else to put in the garage.  Like Evan's sleeping bag that I have been searching for in every nook and cranny of two of my current three houses for the past 4 days.  Luckily it was wrapped in plastic.  Because it seems that some stepford rodent types have been squatting in our garage.  I found their nut stores and their post digested nut gifts.  After cleaning out the garage for a few hours I was convinced I had contracted hanta virus and had to give myself a silkwood scrub down shower (with my flip flops on because I am not standing on the same surface as the husband's still "draining" pus filled diabetic ulcerated foot.)  Now I'm fresh as a freshly scrubbed daisy. 

Except my legs and feet feel like they are filled with molten lava. I'm counting the seconds until I can get into bed and just lie there flat.

Here is my current status on facebook:

"I googled the name of the woman who is trying to buy my house. I saw her facebook page and among her many interests are MAKE UP, SPRAY TANNING AND PLASTIC SURGERY."

I've gotten a ton of comments and one Like from the one slightly eccentric friend who is most likely to engage in all three of the house hunter/buyer interests.  I want to know this woman, but not because I hold her in high regard but because sometimes it's fascinating and riveting to watch someone who is a total train wreck spiraling out of control and something tells me that this house hunter/buyer just might be one of those fun to watch (from a very safe distance) kind of folks.

I'm still hoping that someone else swoops in here and decides they have to have my house without trying to steal it out from under me.  I know it's just a house, and I know I can change stuff in the new house in new town, and make it more like this house, but I really want to have a love fest with the next person.  It would make passing on this house to the next people easier.  I'd like there to be good karma all around.

Mrs. Bean

Evan and Josh have been delivered to their respective camps.  Evan's friend was dropped off at my stepford home yesterday morning.  I made the boys some lunch, tossed them, their stuff, the other 2 kids, bear bait and me into the truck and hit the road.  Evan was deliriously happy to be among his camp friends again.  It was a great feeling to see him so happy.  His farewell words to me were "I love you even though you're old."  What a charmer.

After dropping Evan off we headed to utopia.  Oh utopia! I was so happy I spent hours cleaning when we were there on memorial day.  The place looked good.  We had a late dinner with our utopian friends.  The place felt good.  We fell into our beds, woke up this morning and drove Josh to his camp.  Josh was psyched when he saw that he shared a bed area with the kid he was friendly with last summer.  Josh was also psyched that he got to camp before the other kid so he could grab the upper bunk.  Once we got Josh all lice cleared and unpacked he wanted to run around and sign up for the afternoon activities.  I had to remind Josh that he should kiss me goodbye.  

Then the three of remaining, Matt, bear bait, and me, got back into the truck and headed to the scooter dealer to pick up the scooter the husband got me last fall.  Now that I've got my permit I am going to take a motorcycle safety class and hopefully pass my road test at the end of two days.  The scooter is currently hitched to the back of my truck.  I'm kind of hoping I can leave it there until I get to the class.  After studying for the permit test, which was pretty much two chapters in the driver's manual about how dangerous motorcycle riding is, I'm not so confident about being out there on the open road all exposed and vulnerable.  My jean jacket has ruffles on it.  I might need to butch it up.  I'm thinking about changing my name to Mrs. Bean.  Mr. Bean had a motorized bike, not a vespa, but close enough for me! 

I think I put about 500 miles on the truck in the past 36 hours.  I was so tired tonight that I stood in front of the door to stepford trying to click it open with the car remote.  I kept waiting for the sound of unlocking door.

out damned children! out!

Evan baby is off to his camp today.  Someone I never met called me and asked me to drive their kid to camp with Evan.  I said I would do it. Evan tells me he has known the boy for years and considers him a friend. I can't get over calling a stranger and putting your kid in a car with them.  What if I was an alcoholic or a total screwball (shut up!) or something?

Josh baby is off to his camp tomorrow.  Matt baby is off to his summer european adventure on Friday.  Then I take a motorcycle safety class to pass my motorcycle road test so I can drive my new scooter.  (No Mrs. Bean jokes!)   And then it's up to utopia for a minute until I come back and start tossing the crap we should have tossed years ago.  I figure I'll be going back and forth a lot during the three weeks that were supposed to me my 3 weeks off to relax and recoup and maybe regain some of my lost zen and that thing they call sanity.   You can tell it is summer season by the thousands upon thousands of miles I am going to put on my truck in the next 5 weeks.

Looks like we don't actually have a house buyer after all.  I knew it!!  (I told the realtor to keep showing the house and not to miss any opportunities.)  The buyers, formally known as hunters, from now on to be known as assholes who wasted my time by needing to see my house 5 times before making a realistic offer,  want to close on July 5th, which is unreasonable.  We said after the 24th and they think they are driving a hard bargain by saying July 8th.  I said they could pay for the movers to pack me if they ned me out so fast or go the fuck away and leave me the hell alone.  Luckily we speak through the realtor who interprets for me.  I knew these people were trouble all along.  My instinct is never wrong.  Never.

I know the reason I am so incredibly (my head is about to explode) stressed right now is because there is no concrete plan for the near future.  I hate being plan-less.  It is as plain and simple as that.  Hopefully a sincere house buyer will come along soon.  One who doesn't think I should be on my knees with gratitude that they are buying my house.  One who understands that I am not desperate so they can't steal it away it away from me (with half of my furniture tossed in because I am just that at frantic to sell the house pffftt!) 

BTW, we closed in new town yesterday and I realized that my furniture is not going to fit in the new town house anyway.  I don't know what I am going to do.  I could take out windows to make space for my stuff, but that seems a tad overboard, don't you think?  I actually liked the new town house better without the furniture in it.  The biggest thing I need to do asap is paint over the bloody diarrhea colored paint in the kitchen.  Did I tell you that they paid someone to choose that color?  Unbelievable.  Also, that the same stager paints other houses the exact same colors?  I can find them on the internet listings.  She likes bloody diarrhea in the kitchen and christmas tinsel silver anywhere she can get it.  Living rooms and bedrooms, any place is good for the tinsel.  I will need to paint the living room in new town too, tinsel is just not as urgent as the kitchen.

scent of weed

I am insane with too much to do.  I was piling a month's worth of recycling into the husband's car at 10PM tonight when the unmistakable scent of weed wafted towards me.  I hate it when other people are having fun and I am working my buns off.

Tomorrow we close on the new town house.  I woke up crying this morning because of how much I am going to have to do to that house to make it feel as comfy and cozy as my stepford house.  I really love my stepford house.  I wish I could take it with me.  Also, I still hate the new town house kitchen.  It's become a problem for me.

The world's most annoying house hunters gave us some kind of bizarre contract with their bid for the house.  They used a contract not made for residential property sales.  It said we had to leave our mats.  Mats?  Seriously? They also want to close on July 5th.  On what planet does that happen?  I really want to tell these people to forget it.  They have me so thoroughly creeped out.  I don't want our house to go to awful people and they give me the worst vibe.  We are waiting for them to come back with a real contract.  I suspect they are stupid.  There were other mistakes on their contract too.  I can't believe stupid people might be living in my house.  It's depressing.  I wish someone would come along tomorrow and give me a smart bid.  I'd jump on it.

At least my gay friends can get married in NY now.  I can go on.

I am never going to get a break

I have so many things to keep track of that I fear my head might explode.  My three weeks of peaceful solitude (kids off on their own respective adventures) just might turn into three weeks of packing up the stepford house.   We seem to have a buyer. Just Fuck It.

I'm in mourning for my me time, utopian me time.

I have to come to terms with the fact that I am never going to get a break.  Ever.

Ever.

Ever.  Like in my whole life.  I am just not meant to have it easy.  It's one disaster to the next for me.  No break for me.  I have to let that dream go.  Fly away dream!  Be free dream!  Life can just keep pounding on my back.  I accept my fate.

I can pray for a length of time without a crisis but it isn't going to happen.  I can pray for some time to focus only on myself, but it isn't going to happen, I can pray for strength, but dammit, I appear to be chock full of that because look at me people?  I'm still standing!!

It turns out that the husband has two fractured ribs.  He took a tumble a couple of weeks ago and despite my repeated suggestion that he seek medical care he did not seek medical care until today.  Did it matter?  Not entirely because there is nothing to do for fractured ribs.   The husband is, however, now in possession of a (federally regulated controlled substance)  little orange pharmacy jar of (hopefully) the ability to sleep at night.  Please, lord, let the man sleep tonight.

I hate the buyers.  I have never seen or heard the buyers, but they tried to play hardball with us over the price of the house and now I think the buyers are slimy weasels.  They wanted us to include a chunk of our furniture in the price of the house.  Ridiculous.  Idiots.  I am having evil fantasies that I shall not speak out loud or type silently, just in case the thoughts come true.  If I don't say them aloud I can't be a suspect.  I hope.  I just pray the inspection does not turn anything up.  If it does, well, no surprise there, it's how things go down for me.  If it doesn't, well then I won't believe we are actually closing this house until I am rolling around naked in wads of money like the chick from American Dream was in red flowers.  Oh wait. And then there is the bank.  Dammit.  They are going to want their money back.  See?  I never get the break.  I'm gonna have to get red flowers.  

Matt graduated.  I'm trying to compartmentalize my deep to the bone sorrow over his leaving us forever and just be happy for him.  Not being entirely successful.  What the hell did I waste my time and energy raising this fine human being for when all that is going to happen is he is going to go out there into the world and ditch us?  I mean, hello?, I'm the mother,  I'll never get the credit I deserve for him.  I should have been a slacker mother.  They get to have adult fun all of the time and then when their kids grow up and dessert them they have other things to do anyway. 

I can't believe I'm not going to have any me time.  Sucks.

middle school- check

Evan (my baby) had his 8th grade graduation, they called it a "celebration", tonight. 

You know I don't fit the stepford mold, but OH MY GOD I spotted another outsider sitting nearby.  She was a fellow outsider but nothing like me.  I considered trying to take a discreet shot with my little point and shoot, but I chickened out.  I will however, describe instead.  It starts at the bottom.  Leopard print patent leather ballet slippers.  A word tattoo I could not read on her right ankle and on her left leg she had a tattoo vine that wrapped around the front of her foot twice then around the back and up half way to her knee.  Then she had on some kind of knit mini dress in brown and black herringbone checks with spaghetti straps.  I guess the straplessness of her dress wasn't enough to keep the unstepford mom cool though because the gym was sweltering and the unstepford mom spread her legs and fanned herself up between the legs.  It was more than I could bare.  How can a woman such as myself view such a late night television comedic moment and not do anything about it?  It wasn't easy.  Probably if I wasn't trying to talk myself out of swooning from the sauna like temperatures in the gym I might have made a movie on my cell phone.

I happened to sit down near wildmom's husband, and I got to sit next to wildmom, but then I realized that peanut and B were there too and I was disappointed that I hadn't planned better beforehand and arranged for all of my babes to sit together.  Whatever.  The people sweating near me all smelled freshly bathed, so it wasn't such a big deal.

I am holding out hope for 44 more

I want so little.  I'd like to win the lottery and I'd like to make it to 90.  I think 90 is a really good age.  90 is also when grandma started to lose her memory.  I figure that if I make it to 90 intact then I can get hit by a bus or put down like a horse with a broken leg and avoid a possible downward spiral.  Is that too much to ask?  Three out of my four biological grandparents made it to a nice ripe old age.  I figured I had a 75% chance.

When I went for my yearly physical last week the good doc heard something he didn't like the sound of in my neck. He described it as the sound a hose makes when you step on it and the water can't get through.  Fuck.  I mean FUCK!  

My mom had carotid artery surgery on both sides.  I went for a carotid artery sonogram today and I couldn't see a thing when she did my right side because I was facing the wall but when She did my left side I was facing the machine and I didn't like what I saw.  Now I have to wait for someone to read my results and inform the good doc.  I know what they are going to say.  What I don't know is exactly how bad the blockage is.  

Right now I'm annoyed at myself for wasting all that time with the new new undead therapist when I knew he wasn't going to help me deal with the weight and especially this last year when he was not performing up to par due to his own set of personal reasons.  I have to get my health under control NOW and I'm exactly where I was 3 years ago when I met the dude.  Frustrating.  Stupid.  Annoying.

One potentially bright spot in my day was when I thought I saw an intact bird on the yellow line en route to the sonogram place.  I quickly pulled into a parking lot, grabbed a bag and skipped over to the road only to discover that what I thought was a bird was another grounds keeper glove turned mostly inside out and looked like a bird shape with fingers for a tail.   It wasn't my day today from start to finish.  

 

whittling and rolling along

I finally whittled down my dead animal bird section of photos into a manageable number of photos.  I have a little series going with birds only!  Yippee!  Last week my photo teacher/advisor mentioned the possibility of printing up photos and making them into a handmade book  This is right up my alley because I am all about the arts and crafts.  I came home did some youtube video research and got some good ideas on how I'd like to assemble my hand printed book.  The one thing I don't know how to do is to print my photo not centered, which I would need to do.  On my way out the door today my teacher/advisor says "Oh, just make a template!" Like Pshaw!  It's simple!  And I gave her the NOT IN MY TINY LITTLE BAG OF TRICKS face of horror what-in-the -world-are -you-talking-about face. Then I came home, popped the lap top open and found an internet tutorial that was just my speed and now .....  Guess who knows how to make a template?  I am trying to be someone who embraces technology.  That means I hold my breath and make my attempt while ignoring that voice in my head which screams at me to stop before I erase all technology ever invented.   Go template!  Go template! 

My photo teacher was SHOCKED that my print of the dead robin's wing didn't win an award in the local art center member show.  That was nice.  I was surprised too, but I don't put too much weight on a juried show anymore.  Jurors are not impartial.  And I totally didn't get the reasoning behind this juror's choices anyway so I really really didn't care at all.  It helped that an older couple at the opening were all over my piece telling me it was the best and completely dissing the juror.  It's all good!  Once I move to new town I am going to concentrate on venues that sell.  I need to sell.  I at least have to be able to fund my own work.  If I don't start selling, it's going to be "Hello Y@le grad school!"  (if they'll have me that is).  If I do get something going I might not have to.  But I'd still want to go.  I love school.  I always thought that being a professional student was ideal for me.  I would like to teach too.  If I got an MFA it would go nice with my MS in education.  I could teach any level.  Professor Click has a nice ring to it, don't you think?

So getting off of sugar has not been easy.  First there were the cravings and then there was the complete unconscious cramming of sweets into my face.  Instead of going cold turkey I ended up slashing my sugar intake.  Today, aside from a normal amount of fruit the only sugar I had was a piece of bubble gum.   I did have some carbs though.  I'm thinking of making a no carbs after lunch policy.  I'm also considering intermittent fasting with vegetable juice over the summer.  I already have a juicer from a million years ago, it's probably older than Matt, and it's still in working order, so I'd only have to stock up on the veggies.  I can do that.  I don't know why I can't stop thinking that I am going to "start" when the kids are al off to their respective summer adventures.  I need to commit.  I just can't muster the strength. 

My babes are insisting on throwing me a little going away party. I'm on the fence about the whole big party thing.  It's hard to be in denial over leaving and slip out the back door unnoticed with a minimum of fanfare when your best girlfriends are stocking up on booze and figuring out the playlist.  You know?  I'm not sure why people are interested in seeing me cry.  Really, moving away, my first born baby leaving the nest, the husband's rapidly declining health, it's all too much to handle at once.  You know what I'm saying?   Some days I'm just thankful for the momentum that keeps me going.  If it weren't for the momentum I suspect I might grind to halt, sink down into the earth, and that would be the end of me.

 

craptastic

I don't feel well.  As a matter of fact I feel downright seriously crappy. And I can't really put a finger on how I feel except maybe that I'm coming down with something?  But not really, because if I was coming down with something the crappiness feeling should be picking up speed at a much faster rate.  I tried to go to the posh club and work out with the stretcher this morning.  I was asking if it was humid in the room and sweating so much that he commented about it.  Then he said that instead of turning pink like I usually do I was turning gray.  I quit early.  For the first time exercise was not making everything better.  I felt worse for my efforts.  I was pushing myself really hard just to do my usual.

I came home, told sweet Josh that I didn't feel well and he suggested I lie down in bed.  He even came upstairs and lied down with me until he thought I was asleep and then he tip toed back downstairs to play computer games.  I conked out for two hours.  I had weird bad quality sleep dreams.  I finally got out of bed because I wanted to get away from the dreams.

I'm thinking that the last time I felt this craptastic was back in 2003 when I thought I was going to die from double pneumonia.  I had 105+ fever then, so I figured I was a goner.  It was kind of cool to see double for real (it's just like it is on TV!)  and people talking to me seemed so far away.  I don't feel that bad right now, I just feel like feeling that bad could be around the corner.

I thought about dying and wondered if it would be weird to ask someone to take my dead animal series and try to do something with it.  I thought that it might not matter what I was working on if I were dead.  It's not like I'm famous (yet) or something.  

Then I thought "I can't believe I might die fat." which would be a remarkably big disappointment.  Interesting to me that after almost 20 years of being obese, I still think of it is a temporary condition that I will move past one day.  I better stop waiting for one day to come.  I'm off of sugar as of this minute.  Dammit.  I deserve more than moving through life in slow motion waiting for something better.  I'm taking the reins and bringing in the something better starting this second.  Goodbye sugar!  Get the fuck off my back! 

about the pigeon

"Nah, it's dead.  Just throw it in the garbage." is the answer I got on the phone.

This morning I made a couple of phone calls to see if I could figure out what the right thing to do with the banded pigeon I photographed last night.  I figured if this little guy was banded than someone might be hoping he was going to come home to them.  I got the answer that the little guy was most likely a racing pigeon and that the local animal shelters and bird rehabs didn't have anything to do with the people who raced pigeons.  I said "raised pigeons?" because I hadn't digested that there were people who raced pigeons, and the nice lady on the phone said "I know, I had to have that explained to me too."  I still figured that someone might want their pigeon back, so I did a little internet research and found out that racing pigeons is big on Brooklyn.  Since people race pigeons distances up to 500 miles, it would not be unreasonable that the pigeon I just photographed was from Brooklyn, which is about 20 something miles away as the pigeon flies.  I did more internet research and I called the store owned by a big pigeon racer in Brooklyn, expecting someone to exclaim with joy that I had his prized pigeon, but that wasn't the answer I got.

It's odd because I am pretty indifferent about handling and photographing my subjects, while other people are disgusted at the mere thought of them.  But hearing their stories?  I'm not okay with that.  I'm upset now.  I'm angry at the callousness of the pigeon racing store employee who didn't even want to know what the color the bands are or even where exactly the pigeon was found.  Now I'm going to bury the racing pigeon.  I feel like the poor thing deserves better than some life where he was driven long distances from his home and released to see how fast he could find safety again.  That doesn't sound like a wonderful kind of life to me.  Imagine if I did that to bear bait! 

I told you about the pregnant deer with the two bullet holes in the top of her head right?  And how the cop proudly told me he did that to her? (okay after she was hit by a car)  I feel like I am seeing a darker side to life than I choose to see every day.