I think I've got something in my teeth

A red bow on the steering wheel and a blare of music told me that the Christmas elves had fixed my car speakers. They forgot to re-attach the insides of the passenger door handle, creating a handy little death trap. I drove to work with the radio drowning out my singing without all the usual pops and rattles. Dangerous, listening to music while the world is still tender around me and I haven't callused up for the day yet. The wrong song will shoot right through my chest.

Last night Gavin and I sat on stone stairs on the Boyscouts headquarters terrace while our RSCDS folks danced and laughed. I wrapped a blanket around Gavin's shoulders and we pointed at stars, watched small toads hop in the grass, and discussed what the world would look like if bugs could build houses. He held my finger and walked along the low stone wall. Small things, but really nice.

In other news, I have officially changed back to my former identity. I've got my name back.

Holiday 2006

Chrismas! Gavin tiptoed downstairs in the dark, lit the tree, and dove into his loot. He doled out gifts, successfully reading his name on the labels, and tore open more Cars merchandise than I thought should exist. I stomped around in my new boots ("they're like hooves!"), Mike ate cockroach clusters, and my mom took up her usual position on the couch to peer through reading glasses at her new electronics.


Gavin instucts cat on proper use of cardboard catnip scratcher:

I embark on my first monumental parent assembly job: a PlayMobil castle. Impossible to achieve without monkey toe socks:

An hour later... success! Gavin says "meh":

Singing the doom song:

Me shamelessly posing with new earrings and cashmere sweater:




Highlights of weekend:

Gavin ripping open present, seeing the Cars logo, and exclaiming, "Oh no! Not another one!"

Texting Mike to nag him about groceries and hearing "Heartbreaker" wail from the table where he forgot his phone. Guess he changed my ringtone. Asshole.

Discovering that Santa had stuffed smoked oysters and beef jerky in my stocking. Looked fruitlessly for stinky cheese and crusty bread to complete meal, but it was a good start.

4 words: pink. rubber. cowboy. boots.

Caught with bottle opener, I suffer humiliation over twist-top bottles.

Rock-n-roll fruitcake, ready to pull our eyeballs out of our heads.

Drunk neighbors take break from smashing furniture to warble carols in the parking lot, I am about to go outside and throw salted nuts at them.

"Wow, this dead meat air freshener is the worst present I have ever gotten. Thanks." You're welcome.

The oven caught fire when the meat pie and sausage-apple dish bubbled over.

Gavin with toy soldiers on edge of castle, yelling, "I wave my private parts at your auntie!"

Squeez 'n' bites

I've gotten hold of some lychee jelly candies. The "mouthful of death", my favorite.

The Christmas tree has been slowly filling up with gifts, and they finally spilled into the living room like candy-colored entrails. I sat with the tree lights on at 5:00am, eating baked Lays with the cat. Xebo finally rolled off my lap, went outside, threw up, and climbed back on to lick the salt off my chest. That is the kind of holiday weekend it's going to be. I haven't been sleeping. On the table is a manila envelope containing final processed divorced papers; I am free to reclaim my former name and go wherever the breeze may carry me. And it is carrying me to Bakersfield, I guess.

Doing my best Leonard Nimoy hobbit dance in new travel gear:

that road keeps on calling me

Gavin and I wrapped a present for his teacher this morning. I held the paper while he cut, handed him tape while he fastened, peeled the paper from a bow and he stuck it on. He signed "G" on the label. "He's the 'Big G'!" I said to my mom, holding it up for admiration while he put his hands on his hips and grinned.  He's awesome. Of course, I still watch his hands closely when he does anything artsy, looking for future promise, wondering if he'll succeed where I fell short. His scribbles look the same as all his classmates' on the wall, with only one big difference that gives me hope; in a sea of staring blank holes, his figures are the only ones with pupils.

Yesterday I narrowly avoided broadsiding a parked car when I rounded the corner and saw all the new firemen at the training station lined up in uniform and marching down the courtyard. Today I anticipated this and slowed to a crawl to see what they were doing, but was again disappointed to see that they had not set fire to anything. I have been waiting an entire year to see that training center set on fire like the "LIVE FIRE TRAINING!" sign promises. Perhaps they are referring to the firemen being alive while trained. Or they are training the fire to not burn down stuff. My lunch companion (Mr. Squashy) and I had squinted up at the building and spotted what appeared to be a hammock at the top. Hmm. Firemen are mysterious.

Gavin turns 4

Picture post!

My mother and I use the boys as excuses to use the walkers:

My mother and aunt ignore all the little nachos:

Gavin gets through the train security checkpoints with clever disguise:

It's a cursing hillbilly cake:

Men in tights

picture post


Friday, last day of school for the kids. I put on a festive red sweater. Turtlenecks are kind of scary, and I discovered I had been transformed into Angry Librarian Action Figure.



Don't make me scan your barcodes.




I arrived at school with my purse and no lunch. I left with 5 lbs of candy and cookies dumped on me by nauseous teachers. That, and my Secret Santa left a package for me in the office; the book shopgirl and a Borders gift card. The note was signed "Tall Dude", which could have been any man in the school except the sweet tiny old janitor. But after school a handsome face popped in with a nod and wave, and I realized that the Secret Santa committee had paired me with the only age-appropriate single man in the school. Oh no. Too soon, folks.


On the drive home, Gavin was chattering happily about his preschool holiday breakfast, having spent the day with his dad. Mike evidently was dogpiled by 3 year olds all morning after eating pancakes with the church folk. The family put on formal-wear and we hit downtown Honolulu for sticky rice and the Nutcracker. At the Blaisdell center, Gavin chased girls in cupcake dresses while we ordered drinks. The double rum-and coke turned out to be a cup of liquid hangover, so I pushed it at Mike. At curtain call, Mike slumped groggily into his seat, Gavin and Chris strutted up and down the stairs in their suits, and my mom whispered to my aunt about the divorce while I waved from my seat. Aside from the nice people behind us whistling along and tickling their children during the performance, it was a beautiful ballet and Gavin made it 10 minutes longer into the second act this year before falling asleep on my lap.

Everyone pose with the birthday boy. NOW.

divorced

Well folks, today was the big day. We sat outside the courtroom in the special divorcing-lepper's quarantine area, and stepped into a room completely filled with desk. A giant old woman sat on a throne at the top. "Wait until we call your case, just stand there by the wall." We stood. We swore. We stated our names. We sat at very tiny desk beneath throne. Thirty seconds later we were leaving, scibbling our initials on the papers and handing them to the bailiff. "We'll stamp and process these today and you'll get your copies in the mail." And so we are divorced.

We walked around the mall numbly for a bit before heading back over the mountain for lunch. Mike sulked. I drank. He said, "I feel like when you're trying to win a prize and you write the right answer and then erase it and write something else and you were right the first time." I said, "Yeah, 'fucking strangers' was the wrong answer."

I made him take a picture to mark the day.

Mike: Are we supposed to be smiling?
me: oh hell yes

Drive like the wind

I finally found a button-up shirt that wouldn't come open during class and flash the kids. The key is really difficult little buttons with small holes. This is great for work - but not so great for trying to change in the car. It was too hot for long sleeves, so I dragged my workout tank top out of my gym bag (it didn't smell too bad, who was there to sniff me?), and only managed to get unbuttoned and remove half an arm before the light turned green. The highway needed concentration, so I gave up and drove home tangled in my open blouse, completely negating all the good I had done by staying covered at work. 

 

It occurred to me last night that I have never actually been on a real first date. In high school we had a dumb system where you sent your friends up to your crush and they said, "Eh, you like go with my friend?" and if they said "yes" you got to snog them at recess until one or the other of you got bored and repeated the process with someone else. Or sometimes, as in my case, you got cornered in dark places by pursing lips belonging to boys who wouldn't be seen with you in public. In college, we just hung out watching tv until we realized we were in a relationship.

I don't know. I guess I'll have to figure it all out.

the fruitcake

The power went out yesterday morning as I was lining my cake pan with waxed paper, causing screams from neighborhood children cut off mid-video game. Being good consumers, we packed up and went shopping. We stopped at a fund-raiser car wash held by the community college's Fashion Society and laughed while the aspiring designers tiptoed around our car in fancy clothes and high heels, trying not to touch the wet sponges.
 

We sat in the evening to a Sunday dinner of roast beef, glazed carrots, and pumpkin eggnog. Gavin climbed out of his Power Ranger costume to sit at the table, and I lit the fireplace (read: put batteries in it), my triumphant fruitcake bundled securely in the wine cooler to age. And I did not set fire to the waxed paper, which apparently is entirely different from baking parchment, but I admit the pan was smoking a bit when I took it out of the oven, giving it a rebel rock-and-roll-fruitcake-from-hell kind of look. The bottom of the oven may have caught fire in places where the wax dripped, but that is understandable. The cookbook said to let it steam in foil until cold, and for a moment I was confused about how it would become cold, not just room temperature, and I was wondering if something chemical occurred between the cherries and brandy, but then I remembered knocking the frozen water out of the dog bowl in the indoor pantry as a child in Newfoundland. This recipe is from a place where things get cold in December. Of course, now I am wonder whether my fruitcake will get moldy before Christmas because it left it out at not-cold temperatures for a while. Leaning toward not. Mostly.

unbloggable

[saved as draft and published April 2, 2007]

It's hard opening up even to myself about relationship stuff, let alone to something I know is public, but I feel like a hipocrit fighting censorship in my library and then hiding my own life because I'm afraid of what people would think. I spent 3 hours on the phone with Mike yesterday. I was really honest with him. It's frustrating to me that we get along so well, even now, and that some sad part of the smashed ruins in my chest still cares about him. Anyone would tell me I'd be an idiot to consider him again. I know it. A wise woman told me Don't buy cheese whiz when there's still brie on the shelf. I told Mike that he has to become the man he wants Gavin to be, and if he can do that there might be something left for us somewhere much farther down the road. I guess I'll just keep my head up and eyes open for that brie. I thought my heart had broken open and emptied out, but last night I walked to the store and made eye contact with a face that in the semi-dark resembled the guy I loved, and my heart squeezed painfully. The stranger watched me round the corner, seeming to recognize me, too. [Or thinking about murdering me.] 

When you smile, your body releases happy chemicals. I've been trying to write about happiness, to create it, and it’s not working. It's kind of a relief being able to settle in and do what I want in life, just me; maybe grow some roots, enjoy my job, get into a groove with life and Gavin and family. I'm ok with just being me. But I'm still heartbroken.

fruit cake

Sunday. My mother is sad that I have given up coffee.

Saturday was a sick day, Gavin laying upside down on the couch with dual ear infections after throwing up his medicine. Po had a bad time in the litter box and streaked around the house until I chased her down with the enzyme spray and a wet wipe to fix her up. She seems to have eaten too much tinsel. Gavin dumped all his toys on the floor looking for a particular train, then slowly put them back in the basket. "Mom, I can't put them away," he said, "I'm too tired." "Oh, dear, I guess it's time for a nap if you're tired, should we go upstairs?" "No, mom. I'm not that tired. I just changed my mind," he said, putting his toys away again. He fell asleep 10 minutes later on the floor before he could finish. Walking over quietly to pick him up, I stepped on a micro machine, skidded across the floor, tripped on a play set, and fell headlong over Gavin's body onto the couch with a yell. He shot upright, pointing wildly, "Mom, you must be careful!" and fell back asleep in my arms as I brought him up to bed.

My mom came home from class with a fresh pine wreath, apple cider, and chocolate fruit assortment. We watched Love, Actually until we were very sappy and depressed, then broke out the candies and Christmas cartoons. Gavin considered the dialogue. "Why he say that?" "It was supposed to be funny." "But it wasn't." He is correct. In the evening, and I made a rash decision: I am going to make a fruit cake. The kind that is full of liquor and has to age 3 weeks before eating. The first step is underway, I have soaked several cups of raisins, currants, and candied cherries in brandy overnight. Today the cake comes together, and then I will wrap it, seal it, and brush it with brandy every week until Christmas. Why not?

Thus begins the season

Put up the tree. Created an avalanche of Christmas boxes in the closet under the stairs. Assembled tree upside down, righted it. Cut the tape off the boxes of ornaments, discovered lost beloved toys stuffed in with them, which made Gavin happy. Filled advent calendar boxes with chocolates. Gavin helped hang ornaments, and opened the box of tree chocolates. He's a great kid. I walked up to the store to buy a power strip for the lights. After a bit of pantomime, the dollar store guy figured out what I was looking for and rang me up, asking "Where the sweetie? Home with Grandma?" It's kind of comforting being such a familiar face that the clerks at the stores know our family. Picked up some holiday booze next door, winding up at the register with the underage cashier who always analyses my choices. "This is good, I always get anything that says Puerto Rico on it," she said. Walked back home. "Mom," I said, "You're the dad, put up the star." We've got the star up, and Po is sleeping on the stockings. We're good to go.

Gavin hanging ornaments:



 The face I made when the flash went off unexpectedly: