girlfiend

Back in August, just a few short weeks after being evicted from my mom’s shore house, she invited my cousin and his wife to her house for the weekend and begged me to join them. Knowing that there was no way they’d ever agree to the visit because of all of the fights around his wedding, I told her sure and emailed my cousin letting him know I’d like to see him anyway. He wrote back and explained that there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that they’d visit the shore until my mom apologized because her actions are inexcusable and embarrassing. I wrote back that she probably did owe him an apology, and yes, most of her actions are both inexcusable and embarrassing, but I still wanted to maintain contact with him because our family’s small enough.

Fast forward to Friday. My mom called and read the email described above in its entirety to me. Then she hung up.

The next day after letting things cool down a bit I called her back and apologized. She graciously accepted my apology and I felt like a smacked ass.

Yesterday my cousin Meg called and lectured me for an hour about betraying my mother by taking Paul’s side in the argument. For a fucking hour she told me over and over again how badly my mother feels that I’d write something so horrible and take Paul’s side. She further explained that someone printed the email and mailed it to her with a note at the top “even your daughter repudiates you.” Motherfucker.

Boyfiend tried to talk me out of responding at all, but after Meg’s endless lecture I was even more furious than I’d been at first. I called Paul and told him that I didn’t want to be involved and to leave me out of it. He didn’t know what I was talking about. I told him that an email I’d sent in August had been sent to my mother. He knew immediately what email I was referring to and he denied everything, swearing he’d never do anything like that to me, that I’m his cousin and he loves me and he has no idea how anyone could have gotten to his email and he wanted to get to the bottom of it. I told him I didn’t care who sent it, I just wanted to be left out of it.

Ten minutes later his mother, Aunt Bea, called me, vehemently denying any involvement. She swore up and down that she didn’t even know how to print an email, let alone do a cut and paste job and mail it, and she would never, ever, ever, under any circumstances, involve me in her fight with my mother.

Five minutes after that Paul called again. He said he was sorry I’d been hurt and he had no idea how it happened and perhaps my mom or someone else had access to my gmail account and I should check and make sure nothing was saved on my hard drive. He asked me to find out from my mother where the letter was postmarked because he truly has no idea how it could have gotten to my mother since he hadn’t shown that email to anyone.
It’s so obvious that they’re both lying through their teeth. Bea’s use of the phrase “cut and paste job” (which never came out of my mouth so how would she know that’s what it was) gives her away, and Paul’s immediate knowledge of the email in question followed by his innumerable apologies, his desire to “get to the bottom of this” and his suggestion that my mother knows my password and mailed it to herself all point to the fact that he probably forwarded the email to Bea who cut and pasted it into another document and mailed it herself.

The truth is that my mother’s behaviors are often inexcusable and embarrassing, but her sister and nephew’s behaviors are dishonest and despicable. As much as my mother drives me crazy, I have to cut her some slack because she comes from a seriously fucked-up family.

I am so grateful that Boyfiend’s family is nothing like mine. They are kind and caring and honest. I never in a million years would have dreamed that I’m about to write this, but I’m really looking forward to Christmas and spending time with his parents and siblings and aunts and uncles and cousins. The Fiendling is going to grow up being a part of a real family, a good family, a group of people who like each other and like him and know how to interact without hurting people.

Brining a turkey makes all the difference.

Paula Deen’s country stuffing is good, but regular stuffing is better.

One should never try new vegetable recipes on Thanksgiving. Everyone’s too busy eating the other stuff to care.

Banana Republic is finally selling shirts that hit below the waist. Belly shirts be damned.

A stomach virus, though I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone, is a great way to lose the rest of the baby weight.

The combination of a stomach virus and a new, longer-length shirt from Banana Republic ensures that people will say, “You don’t look like you just had a baby,” at your high school reunion.

Nothing pleases a woman more than hearing the phrase, “You don’t look like you just had a baby,” from a number of different people.

No one on my mother’s side of the family can be trusted. They are all crazy in different ways and no matter how I try to stay out of it, I’ll always be dragged in.

Headbands look awfully cute on a short haircut.

One.9 Merlot isn’t bad at all, even if you’re not watching your carbs.

As of Thursday I’ve eaten:

• English muffin with butter (this was a very poor choice with severe consequences)
• chicken broth (maybe a cup and half total)
• toast (5 or 6 slices)
• applesauce (maybe half a cup)
• rice (about a quarter cup)
• a few crackers

Considering my last real meal was half of a turkey sandwich on Wednesday, shortly before the great stomach illness took hold, you wouldn’t think that I’d have spent the last several days watching the food network nonstop, but I have and I just can’t stop. I’ve fallen deeply in love with Giada and everything she cooks. I can’t get enough of Paula Deen and would love to be a guest at her Thanksgiving dinner even though she uses entirely too much mayonnaise and calls sweet potatoes stuffed with marshmallow and rolled in coconut a vegetable. Michael Chiarello is creepy, though I plan on trying a number of his recipes. I despise Sandra Lee with all of her powdered spice packets. Alton Brown is probably someone I’d enjoy hanging out with, especially while he deep fries a turkey. Emeril isn’t nearly as annoying in his half hour show as he is live though none of his recipes have wowed me. Rachael Ray’s voice is grating and her recipes suck balls. I’m also rather fond of the Barefoot Contessa though I’ve only caught a few minutes of her making a pie crust in a food processor. Apparently it’s all about the ice water.

Later

I had to edit this to add that I just watched the Iron Chef America battle Cranberry with team Bobby Flay/Giada DiLaurentis vs. Mario Batali/Rachael Ray. Bobby Flay has always seemed like a bit of a dick, so it was no surprise to me that he and Giada didn’t make such a good team. She obviously needed reassurance but he was too wrapped up in what he was doing to help her out. On the other side, Rachael who was sweaty, flushed, frustrated and totally out of her element was calmed by the ever-supportive Mario calling her “honey-bunny” and enjoying himself visibly. I’d never seen much of Batali in action before, and based on this show I like him. I don’t know if it was his presence on her team or the fact that she was obviously nervous and her perkiness was somewhat subdued, but Rachael Ray was actually likeable and her pasta dish looked like something I’d want to make. So maybe all of her recipes don’t suck balls.

Just when I think it’s safe to whine about not being invited on playdates…

stomach flu

I’m not good at making friends. Aside from Doodlebug, who I was set up with, I haven’t made a new friend in years. I know that that’s not unusual, especially since I’m old and married and lame, but having mom friends is important and I only have two who live nearby. In the past eight months I’ve managed to chat up at least half a dozen moms at the playground, but I’ve never quite made it to the next step, the playdate step, which is clearly where I need to be right now.

A woman pushing a stroller down my street once gave me her phone number. When I called and left a message I never heard back. Another woman in Target, clearly desperate for friendship never called back either. Yet, Doodlebug somehow manages to get invitations to weekly strolls in the park, coffee dates and who knows what other mom/baby meetings.
I know that many people make friends online and make the transition to a real friendship. Not me. Aside from the people I actually know in real life I haven’t really befriended any bloggers. I’ve private messaged with people on my local message board and I’ve emailed with a number of people sporadically, but then they stop emailing back and I start to feel insecure and bad about myself. I wonder how I’ve offended them and I go back over my sent mail and scour it for anything that could be taken the wrong way. Later I realize I’m the one who forgot to write back, and I feel like an asshole, an insecure asshole who doesn’t know how to make friends, all over again. Insecurities aside, the majority of the people I’ve written to live so far away we couldn’t be friends in real life anyway.

Because I’m so bad at maintaining contact it’s a wonder I’ve ever actually met any bloggers in real life on purpose. But once, just once, I did. We met at a bar in my old neighborhood for food and drinks and I felt awkward. Really, really awkward. I wasn’t sure what to talk about. No one seemed to be talking about their blogs and that was all I really knew about them and all we outwardly had in common. We made conversation and I certainly didn’t have a bad time, but I noticed no one was really banging down my door trying to arrange future meetups, nor was I brave enough to try to try to arrange any myself. Getting together with that particular group just kind of made me feel old and lame and sad because I really wanted to make friends and failed.

So the other day (now last week) when I ran into a blogger at the playground I said hi even though I was afraid to. A few months ago I’d tried to get her involved in another project and she’d said no and even though it wasn’t personal I’m not good with rejection. I assumed she probably didn’t want want to talk to me, but I knew if I didn’t say something I’d just stare at her and she’d probably think I was some sort of creepy stalker so I said hi and we chatted, awkwardly. I had at least half a dozen questions I wanted to ask her, but based on my previous experience with bloggers not talking about their blogs in real life meetings I didn’t, even though she asked about blog-related things in my life. I tried to act as though I wasn’t completely intimidated, but I was, and when she gathered her kids and left I felt like I’d failed a pop quiz.

Anyway, it’s nice out today. Hopefully the Fiendling will take a nap soon and afterwards we’ll go to the playground. Maybe I’ll manage to score a playdate this time.

I had a post in the works about a chance meeting with another blogger who probably didn’t even notice what a terrible conversationalist I am in real life because she was so distracted by my boobs, but my laptop died again so it will have to wait. I hate my laptop, my stupid white-screening, overheating, subject of a class action suit piece of shit, but I hate using this six and a half year old desktop with the barely functional stripe-screened monitor even more. It doesn’t help that the Fiendling is taking his first nap of the day on me now, at six p.m., and I’m typing one-handed with him snuggled in my other arm and it also doesn’t help that I haven’t eaten for a while. I’ll try to write something of substance another day.

I was embarrassed about this at first because Boyfiend kept teasing me about it. That’s why I’ve waited so long to post this. But I wonder how many other people have a similar quirk.

I’m a bit picky when it comes to handing out candy to trick-or-treaters. I have rules. I don’t give the same amount of candy to everyone. Children with good costumes, handmade or store bought get a few more snack size bars than those wearing street clothes and a hat dressed as a race car driver. Children with good costumes who say “trick-or-treat” usually get a handful of candy. Children under three only get one piece of candy, regardless of manners or costume, because they don’t need all the sugar and their parents and older siblings are going to eat all of the good stuff anyway. Teenagers in their own clothes who say they’re high school students get two year old tootsie pops, classroom prizes I’d originally purchased for a school-wide activity that was cancelled.

This year, despite my grinch-like adherence to my standards and despite the pre-teens wearing slutty baseball uniforms with the number 69 emblazoned on their backs who said “trick-or-treat” but only got one piece of candy each because they were dressed like skanks, we actually ran out of candy before the last kids passed the house. I’m kind of depressed that I didn’t stash some candy away for later. Next year.

Three of the following are subjects of emails from people I know. The rest are spam. First person who gets all three wins a prize.

• bad predictions
• gay pedophilia
• frontal witchcraft
• fuel
• hi onion
• hunchback intellectually
• entomologist download
• good old boy Episcopalian
• one well-defined
• ad lib climax
• global orgasm project
• black magic UN
• stain indignantly
• salsa adornment
• sleight of hand lust

(edited to specify you should guess the real email subjects, not the spam. or was that clear already?)

This morning I’m a little melancholy because my baby is growing up. I know that it happens and I know I have so much to look forward to, but as I watch him standing at the table, trying to get from one end to the other, making new noises and smiling and waving at me and the cats I’m sad because I know he’ll never be this little again. And all of the pictures and videos can’t capture just how perfect he is and how sweet he is. He’s my baby now and he always will be, but this stage will be over so quickly and I love him so much just the way he is. Motherhood is heartbreaking sometimes.

My child wants to walk. He stands up holding on to a table, then looks at me and whines because he doesn’t know what to do next. Because of his desire to grow up and the way his constant movement requires my constant attention, I’m having some difficulty figuring out how to make this blog work properly. For example, now that comments work, italics do not. For fuck’s sake it’s so easy, yet the code simply does not work. Why, wordpress, why?
Right now, the baby is trying to eat the laptop and he’s whining because I won’t allow it. I am in big trouble with this one. His will is strong.

So strong, that he just turned off the laptop (ooh, did that just work? I may have achieved italics!) when I was in the middle of writing about how I was trying to embed a youtube video of the Fiendling telling me he was done with his bath last night, only wordpress won’t let me despite my close reading of the documentation of how it’s done in the FAQs and the support forums. I am totally out of my element here, and the Fiendling knows it so he shut me down. But because I’m the mommy and I can, I will link to the video instead. Here he is in all of his “I’m getting out of the tub now” glory.

Now we’re going to my old neighborhood to vote since I never actually changed my voter registration information. Not voting’s for losers, although if you were planning to vote for Santorum and decided not to vote, maybe you’re not such a loser after all. For any of you reading in Rutland, VT, vote for Doodlebug’s mom!